


Well Traveled

by Gia279



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little bit of blood, Adventure, Alpha Derek, Faeries - Freeform, Hale Pack 2.0, Loneliness, M/M, Pack Bonding, Season 2 Canon Divergence, Slow Build, Stalking, Werewolf Jackson Whittemore, faerie nonsense, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 62,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: Stiles really needed to hang out with more humans and fewer paranoid werewolves.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 131
Kudos: 566
Collections: Fandom Cares





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TamerOfPickles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TamerOfPickles/gifts).



> I'm gonna post all 25 chapters today, as close together as I can! I hope you like it! I tried to hit as close to your prompt as possible, and I so hope it didn't disappoint. <3

“I don’t see why I need to go,” Scott grumbled. The air conditioning in the jeep was out, so all the windows were down in a desperate effort to cool them off.

Stiles glanced at him; his hair was mussed and he was scowling, chin resting on his palm, elbow propped on the door. Stiles felt like a parent chauffeuring his child off to preschool. “Until you stop trying to eat my face, you _do_ need to go. Plus, Erica said it’s basically play fighting. Maybe you’ll get to punch Derek.” 

Scott smirked a little, then glowered again. “We could practice without him. It’s-”

“Scott, he’s the only werewolf around who knows how to…werewolf. And we can’t practice fighting together. I’m breakable.” He straightened and grinned at him. “And because I’m an awesome friend, I’ll stay with you at your werewolf playdate, giving up _my_ Saturday. Human and all. And later,” he said before Scott could suggest they both just skip it, “you can go see Allison. Try your best, tell her how terrible it was, and she’ll probably comfort you.” He still wasn’t…entirely sure where they stood. 

Scott sighed, turning to face his open window. The wind blew his hair straight back. “She’s still not talking to me.” His voice had turned morose, shoulders curving in.

Stiles personally thought that was for the best— _Romeo and Juliet_ wasn’t a handbook, hunters and werewolves were a recipe for disaster—but he couldn’t say that…again. “Well, you’ll be able to focus all your pining energy on practicing to be an upstanding, fuzzy member of society.”

Scott laughed and punched his leg lightly. “I’m not _fuzzy._ ”

“Sometimes you are.”

The jeep shuddered as they rolled onto the gravel drive that would lead them to the old Hale house. Stiles hadn’t even been surprised when Erica told him where Derek made everyone meet for practice. He _was_ disappointed, but it made sense—they had space, people didn’t typically go there, they could practice in all their werewolf glory without worrying about being discovered. 

Stiles slowed down so the jeep could handle the pitted gravel without shuddering like the whole thing was going to fall to pieces. 

It was a sunny, cloudless day, the kind of hot, almost-summer day that brought to mind tantalizing memories of swimming and barbequed hot dogs. Stiles inhaled and could almost taste them. He tapped his fingers along the wheel. Maybe he and Scott could go swimming tomorrow. The lake would probably still be a little cold, but it’d be a nice break from the sticky heat. He turned to Scott to suggest it.

A red blur darted through the trees on Scott’s side. 

He jumped, foot tapping the brake. “What was _that?_ ”

“What?” He turned, squinting out the windshield. 

“That—thing! On your side. In the trees?” He leaned forward to see around him, but the blur was gone as quickly as it’d come. The longer he thought about it, the more he thought possibly he’d seen a bird. 

Scott shook his head. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Maybe it was a bird.” He eased off the brake, frowning to himself and facing the road again. It was probably a cardinal. He wiped sweat out from under his eyes. Damn crappy air conditioning. 

Derek was in the yard with Jackson when they pulled up, talking with an arrogant smirk, too quiet for Stiles to hear. 

Erica rolled her eyes behind Derek’s back, muttering something to Boyd and Isaac, who were standing on either side of her. 

Derek laughed mockingly.

Jackson snarled and swiped at him, ripping his tank top right over his ribs.

Stiles had time to see a thin, red line, and then Derek caught Jackson by the throat. He squeezed briefly and threw him down so hard he bounced. 

Scott huffed. “See? This is stupid.”

“Come on.” Stiles turned the jeep off and climbed out, jiggling his keys in his pocket. He went around the back and grabbed the bag of bottled waters he’d bought on his way. “Dude,” he called, sauntering over to Derek, “have you considered _not_ beating the crap out of the teenagers you’re supposed to be teaching?”

Derek’s jaw flexed. 

Jackson sat up, glaring at Stiles like he was thinking about taking a shot at him, too. 

“They can’t learn if they’re losing control,” Derek said at last. 

Stiles lifted his brows. “Lead by example, asshole. Can’t expect them not to lose control when you’re the one getting mad and knocking them around.” 

Erica laughed.

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “ _Someone_ has to tell you when you’re wrong.” He tossed a bottle at Jackson, only a little disappointed when it didn’t hit him in the face, then one each to the other three. Derek would have to earn his. 

Scott was still by the jeep, watching but refusing to get close enough to be considered part of the group. Par for the course. 

“I’m not wrong,” Derek growled. “And you don’t need to be here. You’re human,” he added disdainfully. 

“Nothing gets past your keen supernatural senses.” Stiles spun on his heel. “So what’s on the agenda today? Sparring?”

Isaac glanced at Derek, then back to Stiles. 

“We’re learning to control aspects of our shift while fighting,” Boyd replied. “While sparring. Which is also not going well.”

“Because none of us know how to fight,” Erica drawled. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Did you do any reading?” he asked Derek. “Or take a class? Learn to teach anything except “throw punches until either you or your opponent dies”?” 

Derek glared. 

He scoffed. “Perfect.” He looked at Erica. “I know _you_ know how to throw a punch. Isaac? Boyd? …Jackson?”

He sneered. “I can show you.”

“Shut up, furball. Okay, since you’re so smart, why don’t you show them?” 

“Werewolves don’t need to know how to punch,” Derek snapped before they could start. “Look, your instincts should tell you what to do. You just have to listen to them.” He moved so he was in front of the four of them. “You’ll want to use your claws, your fangs. Most of your opponents will, too. Watch. Erica.” He gestured at her to approach. 

She smirked and rolled her neck. She ran at him full tilt, claws out.

Derek leaned in, checked her tackle, and knocked her on her ass. He straightened up with bloody grooves in his arm while Erica glared up at him. 

Stiles shook his head at Scott. “If you’re going to be in fights to the death, wouldn’t it be better to, I dunno, learn to fend off an attack?”

“Meaning?” 

“Could’ve kicked her,” Jackson grunted. 

“Point to lizard man! She wouldn’t have gotten close enough to hurt you if you’d have kicked her.”

“I already healed-”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have _had_ to if you’d have kicked her before she was close.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Okay, Erica, get up so I can kick you.”

“Uh, no.” She backed away. There was dirt on her chin and white t-shirt, and her hair was slipping out of the sloppy tail she had it in. “Try Jackson again.”

“He already had a turn.”

“Why don’t you pair off and Derek can go around correcting your form?” Stiles grinned when Derek glowered at him. This was just as disorganized as he’d expected it to be, and he so loved being right. 

Isaac looked mortally betrayed when Erica grabbed Boyd’s arm to pair up with him.

She mouthed, “Sorry!” and moved off to the side, tugging Boyd with her. 

“You can’t teach instincts like a high school science project,” Derek growled. 

“Uh-huh, well your “let me beat you up one at a time” method wasn’t exactly working.” 

Derek’s jaw flexed. 

“You’ll snap a fang if you keep doing that. Scott, come here.” He waved at Isaac. “Why don’t you two team up and Derek can demonstrate moves with Jackson, since he’s got the most practice beating people up?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. 

“There aren’t _moves_ -” 

“Then show them a mock fight instead of using those muscles to knock them down before they can even try.” Stiles crossed his arms. “Unless you’re that bad a fighter. Is that why you need all these betas, ’cause you’re actually bad at fighting?”

Derek’s lip curled. “Isaac.” He jerked his head at Scott. 

Stiles grinned and stepped back so he could observe. 

Jackson sauntered up to Derek as if the guy hadn’t _just_ knocked him on his ass, which was the kind of confidence Stiles would like to achieve one day. 

“Run at me and-”

“No.” Stiles rubbed his eyes. He should’ve stayed home. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing them how to defend themselves during an attack? You go to him. Jeeze, I have to do everything around here.” He tensed when Derek growled; it was a lower, more animal sound than his usual annoyed growl. Stiles wondered if gaining alpha powers made it harder for Derek to control himself and then wondered if he really _should’ve_ just dropped Scott off and left. 

Scott would’ve inevitably left as well, of course. 

Derek snarled and lunged at Jackson.

Jackson stumbled back instinctively. He threw his arms up to protect his face.

Derek slashed at his arm, then shoulder-checked him.

Blood spattered the ground at Stiles’s feet. He grimaced and looked up, focusing on Jackson instead. 

He snarled and shifted his feet, leaning in. His claws flashed and sank into Derek’s shoulder, jolting him back a step. Jackson bared his teeth and swung his hand back to swipe again. 

Derek struck his forearm with his palm and tackled him. 

Scott sighed. “Nice technique, teach,” he muttered. 

Derek stood up. “Once your opponent gets you down, you better fight with everything you have, because that’s it.” He walked around to Boyd and Erica, then Scott and Isaac, showing them how to hold themselves so they wouldn’t lose their balance when attacked. “Staying on your feet is the most important thing to remember.”

“Other than staying alive,” Scott grumbled. 

“Actually, it’s the same thing.” Derek’s voice went…pleasant, instantly raising Stiles’s hackles. “Another werewolf, a vampire, a kanima, a hunter. They knock you off your feet and they’re going for the killing blow. Why don’t you ask your girlfriend about it? She knows.” 

Scott glowered. 

Isaac looked between the two of them.

“Guys,” Stiles warned, hoping he could diffuse the situation before Scott abandoned ship.

“Don’t,” Derek snapped, whirling on him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Behind him, Erica and Boyd were practice fighting, nothing serious, and Boyd knocked her off her feet. 

She threw her hands out behind her to catch herself. Her middle finger broke with a sickening little snap. “Ow!” 

Stiles flinched and turned away, stomach clenching, when she lifted her hand. 

Derek smirked. “It’s a bit much for a human. Maybe you should go.”

Boyd pulled Erica’s finger straight, making her groan, then sigh as the bone healed. 

Stiles’s mouth twisted. “I’ve stuck around through much worse, including saving _your_ ass.” He turned on his heel toward Scott and Isaac. “Okay, let’s see it. Isaac, try to knock Scott over.”

Derek scoffed.

“If you don’t like it, try giving some instructions.” He waited, but Derek didn’t speak. “Great. Guys?”

It didn’t take long for Scott and Isaac to end up in an uncoordinated tangle, tussling like school kids without actually doing any damage or learning anything. Scott pushed Isaac off his chest, breathing hard, and kicked. 

His sneaker arced over Derek’s head and sailed into the trees. 

Derek didn’t flinch.

Scott winced at Isaac, holding his socked foot off the ground. 

“Okay, _I’ll_ go get the shoe. Dude, be useful.” He flapped his hand at Derek. The shade of the trees was blessedly cool, blocking out the sun so thoroughly that Stiles was left briefly blinded. 

White lights flashed ten feet away. 

Stiles blinked to clear his vision, but the lights didn’t disappear; they were small and hovering at eye level, perfectly oval and flashing like blinking eyes. They didn’t seem to be reflecting off of anything, and there were no gaps for sunlight to seep through. He swallowed and stepped closer. It was surely nothing. 

He looked over his shoulder, but the others were listening to Derek as he spoke, undisturbed. He looked back.

The lights winked out. 

He let out a breath. Time to get the shoe and get out of the woods. He scanned the ground as he walked and found the sneaker on its side, on top of some roots. He snatched it, grumbling to himself. As he straightened, footsteps thumped behind him, crunching over dried leaves and twigs. He spun, sneaker arched to throw.

Nothing. Again.

He really needed to hang out with more humans and fewer paranoid werewolves. He thumped the shoe against his leg and looked over his shoulder where he’d found it. 

A pile of five acorns was where the shoe had been. They were glossy brown and smooth, no blemishes or imperfections, stacked in a pyramid without a point, three on the bottom, two on top. 

He picked them up, cradling them in his palm like a handful of dice. Sure. Magic acorns. Why not? Jackson was a giant lizard weeks ago.

“Stiles?” Scott called with a note of worry in his voice. 

“Scared of the dark?” Derek asked, making Erica snicker. 

Stiles set his jaw and stuffed the acorns in his pocket. Even if it _was_ something, it had nothing to do with him. Plus, the werewolves hadn’t heard anything, so it hadn’t been that close. He wasn’t going to be the panicky human shouting _monster!_ every time something spooked him in the woods. He marched out of the trees. 

Derek smirked. “See a shadow?”

Stiles hurled the shoe at him, glaring when he caught it. “Stop trying to play Big Bad Wolf. You’re bad at it.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “I’m going home,” he drawled. 

“You’re _not done,_ ” Derek growled, deep, eyes lighting slowly red, and even _Stiles_ felt the order. 

Scott lifted his chin. “I’m leaving,” he said, like a knee-jerk reaction to Derek telling anyone what to do. 

Nothing was going to be learned if they left the lesson like this. Stiles put his hands up, stepping forward. “We should finish, since we came all the way out here.”

Scott made a face at him; Stiles responded in kind. Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“And you.” He spun on Jackson. “Are you in that much of a hurry to go re-watch _The Notebook_?” 

He bared his teeth. “Better than hanging out with _you._ Whatever.” He went back to Boyd and the others, glaring over Scott’s shoulder.

Stiles felt eyes on him and tensed, turning his head. He braced to find whatever he’d only seen flashes of in the trees, but when he looked, he found Derek watching him with a grateful expression.

As soon as they made eye contact, Derek scowled and turned away. 

Stiles looked at the group. “Who knows what to do when you’re outmatched?”

Erica lifted a brow at Derek. “He said to keep fighting or else you’re dead.” 

Stiles muttered, “Surprise surprise.” He waved his hands. “No. If you’re up against someone way stronger than you and you can’t win, my dad taught me the best move.” 

Erica’s gaze sharpened, Boyd and Isaac looked up; even Jackson was paying attention. Only Scott knew what was coming and looked amused, grinning down at his shoes. 

Stiles leaned in like he was telling a secret. “You come up against someone stronger and you know you can’t win, you hit ’em with your secret move.” He looked over all their faces to ensure they were all paying attention. “Run like hell.”

Erica sputtered out a laugh and even Isaac smirked; Jackson rolled his eyes. Boyd grinned down like he was trying to hide it.

Derek looked annoyed. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Stiles dared him. 

He shook his head. “Fine, yes, if you’re severely outmatched, you should run.”

“If we’re protecting someone?”

Stiles winced at Boyd’s question. It was fair. Derek had tried protecting him before, during a kanima attack. Of course, they’d both ended up in the pool with unpleasant memories, but Boyd’s question was valid. Stiles didn’t have an answer either, which was unfortunate, because Derek looked smug about it.

“If you’re protecting someone and outmatched, and you need to get your attacker away from whoever you’re protecting, I suggest luring them away.” He held his hands out. “Play at being hurt, go slow enough that they think you’re an easy target and chase you. Once you’re safely away, you can run and hope they don’t go back for whoever you were trying to save.”

The betas’ faces reflected Stiles’s feelings about that plan, the grim reality of their new lives, where they might have to choose between themselves and someone else, maybe someone they cared about.

Derek noticed. “We can practice it,” he said. “We’ll need a victim.” His gaze swung to Stiles. 

“Uh, no.”

“You wanted to help them learn, and they’ve all got to practice.”

He considered. “Only if you can knock me down.”

Derek looked a little too eager at the invitation; Scott looked worried. 

Stiles figured he was going to eat dirt no matter what and rolled his weight to his left foot, sliding his right foot back. It wasn’t _exactly_ right, but he’d been practicing fighting stances in his room for a few weeks at this point and now was the perfect time to test it out. Maybe he could catch Derek off guard. 

Derek smirked and lowered his shoulders, mouth twisting in a mock snarl before he ran at Stiles. 

Stiles waited, keeping his breath even, shifted his weight. He snapped his right leg forward in a front kick.

Derek reared back and caught his leg just above the ankle. He straightened, brows lifted with surprise. If he hadn’t have stopped, he’d have gotten kicked in the face, which Stiles figured meant he’d done well. “Nice form.”

“Thanks.” A shadow passed over them. Wind rustled the leaves, blew loose grass around their feet. “Um. Can I have my leg back?”

Derek’s fingers flexed on his calf. “Sure.” He dropped it and turned around.

Stiles looked up. Dark, heavy clouds were creeping their way over them, blocking out the sun and bringing half-hearted wind. A raindrop spattered his cheek. 

“I’m not wrestling in the rain,” Erica said, holding a hand up. “Can we just pick this up later?”

Derek looked at the sky. His shoulders heaved. “Yeah, fine, get out of here. We’re practicing again tomorrow.” 

“Unless it’s still raining.” Erica grabbed her nearly empty water bottle and waved it gratefully at Stiles. She, Isaac, and Boyd didn’t seem to have vehicles nearby, so Stiles wasn’t surprised when the three of them plunged into the woods, shrieks of laughter echoing off the close trees as they raced the rain. 

Scott knocked into Stiles’s side while Jackson was getting in his car. “Allison texted me back!”

“Oh?”

“She wants me to come over so we can talk.” He beamed, like that was ever a good thing to hear. 

“I…good luck, buddy,” Stiles said weakly. He flinched when rain spattered the top of his head. “Do you want me to drive you?”

Scott shook his head. “I’m gonna run, it’ll be faster. See you later!”

Stiles glanced at Derek, but he wasn’t paying attention to him; he was staring at the house. Stiles’s stomach twisted in on itself. He didn’t feel right just leaving Derek alone here, but he also wasn’t great at dealing with other people’s grief. He checked his pockets; acorns, wallet, phone…His heart jumped. His keys weren’t tucked in with his phone like they normally were. 

The rain picked up, pattering against the house and the jeep.

Stiles turned, scanning the ground where he’d kicked Derek, but couldn’t see the keys. His gaze darted to the trees. Did he drop them while retrieving Scott’s shoe? He patted his pockets again, mostly out of habit. Maybe he’d dropped them by the jeep. He turned on his heel.

Derek was still staring at the house. 

Stiles crept past him and poked around the passenger door, the back of the jeep, and the grass by the driver’s door. He looked up, frustrated, blinking rain out of his eyes. He tried to imagine the look on his dad’s face if he called him for the spare key, fumbling through an explanation about why he was here to lose his keys in the first place. He groaned and wiped his face. Derek would probably give Stiles a ride if he asked. 

Derek was gone. 

“Gee, thanks,” he grumbled, annoyed. “What happened to looking out for each other?”

The sky rumbled with thunder. Rain fell in steady patters, a noise he would otherwise find soothing.

“Ugh.” He tried the jeep’s door half-heartedly, even though he knew he’d locked it.

Another roll of thunder growled overhead and this time, forked lightning flashed, making him jump.

He eyed the sky and decided he’d better find shelter, then call for help. He only made it as far as the front left tire before stopping dead. 

The keys sat on the jeep’s hood, perfect center. 

He snatched them and stared at the _Star Wars_ keychain Scott had given him for his birthday a few years ago. He wouldn’t have put the keys on the hood—not normally and especially not today. He’d gone around back for the water he’d brought this time. 

He supposed one of the betas could’ve noticed them on the ground and put them on the jeep without him noticing. That was probably it, he decided, shoulders relaxing, and got in the jeep. He cast one last, uneasy look at the trees before he left.


	2. Chapter 2

The gloomy weather sent Stiles hunting for coffee. He was drenched from standing in the rain and despite the lingering heat from the sunny morning they’d had, he was freezing. With Allison speaking to Scott again, Stiles’s weekend was wide open. He drove aimlessly for a while, until he spotted something even more unusual in Beacon Hills than werewolves: a new business. 

‘ _Copper Moon Café: Now open!_ ’ the banner shouted in red letters that glowed in the gloom of the storm. 

Stiles pulled in impulsively. There were no other cars in the lot and he couldn’t see a drive-thru lane, so he parked in the closest non-accessible spot he could find. 

The rain picked up, roaring and beating against the jeep like tiny fists. 

He squinted out the windshield, looking for signs of life in the café. Light glowed warm yellow through the big front window, painted with a metallic crescent moon hovering over a stylized mug like steam. 

He tapped his fingers and gave in; he was more curious than he was worried about getting wet. Plus, he could dry off inside with coffee and pastries while poking around the place. 

Resolved, he threw the door open and hurtled into the pouring rain. His sneakers landed in a nearly ankle-deep puddle, soaking his socks immediately. He grumbled as he ran across the parking lot. 

Inside, the café was cold and smelled like coffee and maple, cake and cookie scents mingling in the air. Stiles stood dripping on the welcome mat, blinking rain out of his eyes. The floor was made up of checked copper and black tiles; the tables and chairs were deep brown wood, spread around in no discernable pattern. 

Stiles shuddered, crossing his arms, and looked up; he was under a blasting vent which, just thirty minutes ago, would’ve been a nice reprieve from the heat. The ceiling, he noticed, was a bizarre red and gray pattern. He looked toward the pastry case and spotted an employee wearing a bright yellow apron wiping the counter next to the register. 

She didn’t seem to have noticed him yet, tucking a strand of brilliant red hair behind her ear that for a brief moment looked pointed and curled up toward the top of her head. After a blink, it looked like any other ear, decorated with a dangling off-white earring. 

Stiles rubbed his eyes and turned away; next to the door was a heavy black bookshelf with a hand painted sign at the top that read _Take a book, leave a book_. The shelves were all full, free of dust and organized by size, it seemed. All the books seemed to match their shelf-mates in height only. He spotted a couple classics and new releases, adult mystery and middle grade adventure, romance and thriller, just on a cursory glance. His fingers itched. Maybe he had a book in the jeep he could swap, if he found something he liked. 

“Hello!”

First he’d probably buy something before the barista started wondering why he was dripping all over her lobby. “Hi,” he said, leaving the door. He frowned at the menu as he approached; for a brief moment, the words looked strange, unreadable, but as he got closer, he could see mochas and drip coffees and scones. Maybe he needed to get his eyes checked. He rubbed a finger against his temple anxiously. “Could I get an iced coffee, please?”

A red brow lifted over pale eyes. “What size?” Her teeth flashed white and straight when she smiled. 

He flushed. “Medium, please.”

“Of course.” She poked at the register and asked, “Anything else?”

His gaze darted back to the menu. “A maple scone?”

“Sure! Just slide your card when you’re ready.” She continued smiling as she waited, one hand moving up to fiddle with her necklace. It was the same off-white color as her earring and laden with charms shaped like small bones. 

Stiles tore his gaze away to focus on the PIN pad. When he looked back up, she was sliding a cup and scone wrapped in wax paper across the counter. “That was fast,” he blurted. 

Her smile widened. “Thank you.” Her deep brown eyes sparkled. 

Stiles stared as he picked up his scone and coffee. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He retreated to a table and took his phone out for something to do. No messages. 

Scott and Allison were probably still talking. 

He nibbled the scone absentmindedly while scrolling various social media apps, but he couldn’t help darting glances at the bookshelf. He finished the scone and made a pile of the crumbs, gaze locked on the shelf while he swept them into his palm. He checked the counter, but the barista had disappeared. 

There was a shiny silver trash can next to the bookshelf. 

Stiles grabbed the wax paper and sauntered to it. He dumped the crumbs and paper without looking away from the books. His coffee was melting back on the table, but he couldn’t help himself. He crouched in front of the shelf, scanning the bottommost books first. He skimmed the colorful covers and dust jackets, barely registering the titles. He dragged his gaze up and up…the third shelf from the bottom, a deep, glossy brown leather book was nestled between _Where Dreams Descend_ and _In Other Lands_. It had no title on the spine or dust jacket that he could see, but he was drawn to it anyway. He reached for it and hesitated, thinking of the acorns in his pocket. 

Was something weird going on here, too?

He rolled his eyes and grabbed the book. A jolt went through him, heart racing in his chest. He turned the book over in his hands, testing the supple leather, and found the cover just as mysterious as the spine. Blank except for a spiny flower stamped into the center; the edges of the pages were gleaming silver. He rubbed his thumb over them, the rounded corners of the cover and the smooth spine. He turned. 

The barista was at the counter, idly flipping through a magazine. Her hair looked strange, hard and ridged along the sides of her head. 

“Um.” 

Her gaze snapped up. 

“Can I take this?” He held the book up. 

Her eyes seemed to slide right over it. “Sure. Just leave one next time.”

He bobbed his head. “Okay. Thanks.” He grabbed his coffee from his abandoned table and tucked the book under his arm, close to his body to guard it against the rain before he left. 

The rain was still coming down by the time he got home, slowed to a steady patter rather than a pour as he ran for the house. His dad wasn’t home from work yet, so there was no one to yell at him for dripping all over the floor as he ran straight for his room. He kicked his shoes off toward his laundry basket and yanked his soaked shirt over his head. The book in his hand was dappled with water but undamaged, so he set it on his desk to get changed into dry clothes. 

What he should’ve been doing was his homework, but it was Saturday afternoon—he had time. And some kind of mystery journal took precedent over algebra. His jeans clattered when he shucked them, acorns rolling across the floor. He chewed his lip, holding his sweats aloft as he studied them. He should throw them out. What did he need them for?

He pulled his sweats on and scooped them up, rolling them in his palm. He huffed and left them on his nightstand to deal with later. 

The book was stiff when he opened the cover, crackling like it was brand new, but it didn’t smell like any new book Stiles had ever held. As he flipped the pages open, he got a distinct whiff of fresh cut grass. 

The first page just had a black outline of the same flower from the cover, no title, publisher, or copyright information. The pages after that were filled with deep blue text. 

_In the land of Faerie, the customs are as old as earth herself…_

He skimmed a few lines, baffled and wary. Okay. So it was a lore book about faeries. He chewed his cheek. No one had mentioned the fey so far, but did that mean they weren’t real or they weren’t a problem?

“They’ve got to be fake,” he decided. Faeries seemed so…dainty and gentle, and everything he’d learned about the _real_ supernatural had been brutal, death and loss and violence. He shoved the book off to the side and dragged his homework out instead. 

Later, after dinner and bidding his father goodnight, Stiles flopped into bed and kicked his blanket off to the side. He should check in with Scott and make sure he hadn’t eaten Allison’s face off in a fit of wolfy rage, or that Allison hadn’t shot him. He was pretty sure he’d have heard from one of them by now if that was the case. He sighed, rolling his head against his pillow and shutting his eyes. Maybe he could make a self-defense lesson plan and bring it to the next “training session” Derek hosted. He smirked, imagining the look on Derek’s face if he presented it to the group. Might be worth it just for that. He rubbed his left foot over his calf, chasing away the ghost of Derek’s grip on him. Maybe he should practice more self-defense on his own so he could show it off. To annoy Derek. He opened his eyes and found his gaze drifting to his nightstand, hazy and half-asleep.

The acorns were stacked neatly again, no longer scattered the way he’d tossed them. 

He rolled his eyes and snatched his phone to look up _faeries._ There was a lot of information, actually, thousands of results, plenty of art. It was also, he realized after about forty minutes of reading, confusing and more often than not contradictory. 

Either faeries were beings of light or tricksters with morality issues or an entire race of humanoids with motives and thoughts he couldn’t begin to understand. Or dainty, godlike creatures with fluttery wings. So what was true? Was _any_ of it true? Even the internet had _some_ things people agreed about for werewolves, so did all of this mean faeries were just legends or did it mean they were older and more unknowable? 

Stiles fell asleep trying to work it out.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles locked the front door with a paranoid glance over his shoulder. He was technically supposed to be doing dishes, vacuuming, and laundry, per his dad’s edicts that morning, but he needed some answers. 

Scott met him at the end of the driveway, scowling at the weeds sprouting around the mailbox. “Why can’t we take the jeep?”

Stiles winced. “I don’t want Dad to know I’m hanging out with Derek.” He pulled at his backpack strap.

Scott huffed. “We could go to my house and play games instead, you know, and then we wouldn’t _have_ to hide from the sheriff.”

Stiles started walking. “No, we definitely should go. So we can…see how the pack behaves when they _aren’t_ training.” He grinned. “Think of it as recon.” He was sure Scott couldn’t tell the difference between “human walking uphill” heart rates and “lying” yet, so he wasn’t worried about being caught. What he really wanted, aside from getting Scott to join the pack, was to see if any of them, namely Derek, being a born werewolf, would react to the book he’d found at the café. He’d shoved it into his backpack with his homework after he’d called Scott over with his plan.

They probably wouldn’t notice anything, because it was a _human_ book about faerie lore, nothing special or noticeable. If Derek didn’t notice anything, he told himself, that meant it was no more magical than his textbooks and he didn’t even have to bring it up. Scott certainly hadn’t noticed it, but Stiles had his doubts about Scott’s mastery of his superpowers. 

“Recon.” Scott rolled his eyes. “Recon for what?”

“You know what they say about your enemies,” Stiles said cagily and lengthened his stride. 

The loft’s door was already open when he and Scott made it up there; Erica was dropping her purse by a pair of sneakers while Derek glowered, arms crossed, four feet away. He saw Scott and Stiles and puffed up like an angry cat. 

“Why do you all keep coming here?” he barked. “Why are you in my house?”

Stiles waved at Boyd and Isaac over Derek’s shoulder. “Okay, first of all, this isn’t a house, this is a utility closet with high self-esteem.” 

Erica choked on laughter. 

“And second, I thought you guys were a pack?” Scott asked before Stiles could, using a sweet, mocking tone.

“And I thought _you_ wanted no part in it anyway, so-”

Stiles pushed past Derek, interrupting whatever he’d been about to say that would piss Scott off and make his job ten times harder. He said brightly, “Who wants to do the Lit homework? I’m pretty sure we’re all around the same units.”

“Boyd’s in the advanced class,” Erica boasted. 

“Great, he’ll be able to help me teach you ingrates. Get your books.” He looked over them with a grin. He hadn’t expected Jackson to come, and he hadn’t, but three out of four wasn’t bad. He’d texted Lydia, too, but, again, receiving no response wasn’t all that surprising. 

Behind him, Derek muttered under his breath and closed the door. 

Scott sighed loudly and joined Stiles while Erica and Boyd got their backpacks.

Isaac started clearing off a coffee table set in the middle of what was apparently becoming the living room; it hadn’t been there the last time Stiles had been over. 

“Since when do you have _furniture?_ ” 

Boyd laughed, dropping his bag next to the table. “My mom is redecorating and thought Derek could use it since it’d be wasteful to throw it out.”

Stiles threw his hand up. “Wait. Okay. Wait. I _need_ to know how Mrs. Boyd knows Derek.”

Scott looked over at him expectantly. 

Stiles pulled his backpack around and unzipped it while he watched Derek’s face. He pulled his notebook out, breath caught in his throat. 

Derek rolled his eyes. “The Boyds think I am…part of a college mentor program.”

Stiles barked out a laugh and threw his hand over his mouth to muffle it. 

Derek bared his teeth, a snarl slipping out.

Everyone went tense. 

Stiles made himself hold Derek’s gaze and stay still, outwardly calm, but his heart jumped like a scared rabbit anyway. 

Derek smirked, losing his intensity, and Stiles realized he hadn’t actually been losing control—just being a dick. “Don’t make a mess,” Derek ordered, turning on his heel. The door slammed behind him. 

Stiles wished he’d thrown a book at him. 

Erica rolled her eyes. “He’s such a _baby,_ ” she breathed. She leaned over the table and flipped Stiles’s notebook open. “Wow, your handwriting is terrible.”

“Shut up.” He pulled it away and sat down. “Okay, come on, don’t you people know how a study group works?”

“No.” Erica pulled Boyd down beside her, leaning up against his shoulder. She shrieked a laugh and squirmed away when he tickled her side. 

“Keep it together,” Stiles ordered. “We’ve got a mission.”

Isaac sat beside Scott, holding his own notebook in his lap.

“Okay, let’s start with what is everyone actually doing in this class? I’m in the same class as you two, but what about you guys?”

Stiles was disappointed but unsurprised when none of them reacted to the book, not even when he took it out and propped his homework on it. 

“Why’d you want to do your homework here?” Erica asked as they were finishing up. “I mean, we could’ve met at your place.” She looked at Boyd, then Isaac for confirmation.

“What, and miss an opportunity to annoy Derek? Pft. He’s got all this space, and he made you the destructive young werewolves you are, he can deal with the fallout.” He finished writing and closed his notebook with satisfaction. 

Boyd watched him, brows furrowed. 

Stiles ran his fingers over the edge of the faerie book.

None of them noticed. 

He sighed.

The door opened as they were packing their things away; Derek walked in carrying a stack of pizza boxes. 

Erica popped to her feet like a jack-in-the-box. “ _Food?_ ” she asked, like she couldn’t smell it.

“Isaac and I needed lunch,” Derek grumbled, stomping past them to a dining table that must’ve also been new. 

He _said_ that, but he’d definitely gotten more than enough pizza for five werewolves and a human.

“So we can’t have any?” she asked, dropping a hand on her hip.

Derek glowered at her. 

Boyd said, “I’ll get some plates,” and bypassed Derek to get to the kitchen. 

Derek busied himself spreading the pizza boxes across the table. There were no chairs to go with it yet, but Stiles figured that’d come later. Especially if he could talk Erica and Isaac into going yard-sale hopping with him next weekend. He pulled his phone out while the wolves were swarming and scowled at the screen. Jackson’s response to his invitation was simply, ‘ _Fuck off_ ’ two hours late. Lydia hadn’t bothered to respond at all. 

“Here.” Boyd held a plate with three slices of pizza on it out to him. “Derek told me this was yours.” 

“Oh, thanks.” He took it and glanced at Derek, but he was facing Erica, head tipped forward while she spoke.

Scott stuffed an entire slice of pepperoni in his mouth while Derek wasn’t looking, cheeks bulging like a hamster as he struggled to chew.

Isaac laughed at him.

Stiles picked up the jalapeño slice, shaking his head.

Erica left when Scott and Stiles did so they could all walk together in the baking afternoon heat. They were all wearing shorts and tank tops, but the heat was getting to them; she tied her hair up within minutes of shuffling down the sidewalk. Stiles watched her twist it into the elastic she’d had on her wrist with interest, but the quick, practiced movements were beyond him. He wiped sweat from his face and looked away; he swore his sneakers were melting to the sidewalk with every step and the tight, tender feeling of his cheeks told him he was definitely getting sunburned.

He sighed, rubbing his face again. He hadn’t gotten a reaction to the book, but he wasn’t ready to let it go yet. Maybe it just didn’t have a scent. He rolled his eyes, tilting his head back to glare at the cloudless sky. He was going to have to ask, and it was going to be _mortifying_. He looked at Scott out of the corner of his eye, then Erica. Truthfully, they were the least likely to know, but the easiest to access at the moment. “Do you think-” He held the word for a few seconds too long, the memory of Derek’s taunting smirk rising to his mind. _You don’t need to be here._ He cleared his throat and made his voice light, since both of them were watching him now. “Do you think ghosts are real, too?” he chirped, like it was a joke.

Erica laughed. “Why? Are you afraid of the dark, Stilinski?” She knocked their shoulders together companionably. 

Scott looked concerned. “Are you worried about ghosts?”

“Just wondering what else is out there,” he hedged, shrugging.

Scott’s brows furrowed, a frown pulling his mouth down. “Maybe the werewolf stuff is making you, y’know…jumpy.”

Stiles clenched his jaw to keep from responding. _Jumpy?_ Almost getting torn apart by his best friend, a geriatric psychopath, a crazed alpha werewolf, and a giant lizard had made him _afraid_ , but it’d also made him aware. Knowing was better than not, and now he could defend himself against werewolves. 

He went home annoyed, splitting off at his driveway with a muttered “Bye” that made Scott and Erica frown. Maybe Scott was right. He certainly had _cause_ to be jumpy after everything that’d happened, but maybe it’d made him suspicious of everything, too. He glowered. He hated the idea of being the panicky, weakling human of the group. He should stop hanging out with werewolves, or _just_ werewolves—his werewolf to not-werewolf ratio of friends was seriously skewed lately—and pick up where he left off. 

He sighed and rubbed his face as he crossed his yard. 

Scott was still a werewolf and still needed his help.

He wouldn’t _say so_ to Scott, but Stiles really thought he needed a pack, and Derek’s was the only one they had. Plus, Derek had been markedly less awful the longer he’d had the pack and so had Jackson, like they were all mellowing each other out. 

He stepped up on the porch, lost in thought, and reared back automatically when something small and brown darted across the porch. He caught the rail, one hand on his chest. “Jesus,” he muttered. It was probably a weird, misshapen squirrel or mole. He made sure there was nothing else on the porch before crossing it. 

“Ah, fuck,” he muttered as soon as he got inside. He still had chores to do. He crept into the kitchen and stood in front of the sink, which was empty. He checked the cabinets. The dishes were clean and put away. “Dad?” he called, leaning out of the kitchen.

The carpet had vacuum lines on it.

A chill crept over him. “Dad?” he called again, louder, but his dad wasn’t due home for a few hours. He didn’t get an answer. “Maybe I did them.” Maybe he’d forgotten. He went upstairs to get his laundry, because he was sure he’d tripped over his overflowing laundry basket that morning. 

Homework done, chores mostly done…he had time to play some games before dinner at this rate. He’d have even more if he could get away with sandwiches for dinner, eaten at his desk. He thumped into his room and tossed his bag on his bed; it was still airborne when he noticed the neatly folded pile of clothes. The bag toppled the pile over. 

He looked around, but other than his empty laundry basket and desk trash can, nothing was out of place. He inched into the room to examine the clothes. His t-shirts, jeans, socks—all of them were clean and folded as if they were brand new, and still warm like they were fresh from the dryer. He unzipped his bag, gaze never leaving the clothes, and pulled the faerie book out. His gaze drifted to the acorns on his nightstand. He’d heard—and read, in fairy tales—stories about faerie creatures that helped people, cleaned up or helped make shoes or something, but only as a kid. The book in his hands had only spoken of ghastly creatures, nothing so kind as helpers. It had also said the touch of iron would burn the fey. He slumped to his desk and flipped open the book.

He read about hags and redcaps and fetches, things that ate people and children and souls, but nothing about doing chores for random humans. 

He _thought_ they were beings of good, but the book reminded him they were neither good nor evil—par for the course, he thought bitterly, slamming the book shut. “Neither good nor evil” didn’t tell him anything at all.

The corkboard above his desk caught his eye. He chewed his lip. 

It took only ten minutes to write about the acorns, the book, and the chores on their own individual index cards, then pin them in order on the board. It really looked like nothing written in black and white; that was good, he assured himself. He could keep track of events and prove to himself that the fey weren’t out to get him. With any luck, they’d get bored and move on soon. He eyed the book and resolved not to read any more of it. He had enough of the supernatural to keep him busy.


	4. Chapter 4

Erica whacked Stiles on the arm with a binder, knocking him into a freshman with a purple backpack. She shot Erica a terrified look and took off down the hall. Erica laughed. 

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be on the other side of the school?” He rubbed his arm.

“Probably.” She shrugged. “Here.” She shoved a hot pink flyer at him. 

He recognized it; it was for the used book sale the school was hosting. “Yeah?”

“I’m helping with the sale and selling some of my books, so you should come. It’s for a good cause.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What cause?”

“You could read the flyer yourself.” Her mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Donating proceeds to the local animal shelter.”

“Derek doesn’t have enough puppies to count as a proper shelter.”

She kicked his shin.

He yelped, bringing his leg up and rubbing it. “Ow.”

“Don’t be a baby.” She pointed at the flyer. “Show up. It’s a group event.” 

“Stop hitting me, or I’m gonna start pepper spraying you.”

She held her hands up. “I forget.” She waved. “See you later.”

He was going to mix a non-lethal dose of wolfsbane into his pepper spray one day. He rubbed his bruised shin one last time. He was late to Spanish.

Boyd gave him an unimpressed brow lift when he limped in, but there was no time to discuss anything. There was homework to collect and a language to learn, after all. 

Stiles flopped into his seat beside the window. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at Boyd, but he wasn’t paying attention to Stiles anymore. He looked over his shoulder, but Mark had his head down already. 

The sensation of eyes being on him, just out of sight, lasted long after the throbbing of his shin had faded, following him from class to class, through lunch, until he felt ready to crawl the walls to escape the sensation. 

After school, rather than dispersing, the crowd outside became denser and more organized as they turned the school’s lawn into a tiny market. People were setting up tables borrowed from other events with piles of books, DVDs and BluRay discs, magazines, and comics. 

Erica’s table was piled high with books worn soft from age and glossy magazines in equal measures, fanned out and stacked to various heights. 

Stiles stared at the table, then at her. “Is someone blackmailing you?”

“What?”

“To be nice. Don’t you get a rash if you do anything nice voluntarily?”

“It’s for my karmic bank, so I can kick you without consequences.”

Stiles brandished his pepper spray keychain. “Try it.”

She bared her teeth.

Boyd stepped up beside her, knocking into her shoulder while looking down at his phone. “Derek wants everyone over later for…training.” He looked up.

Stiles shrugged. “I’ll try to get Scott to come…wait, you have Derek’s number?”

“Yes…”

Stiles leaned against Erica’s table. “Could I have it? For emergencies?”

Erica looked between them. 

“What kind of emergency?”

“Life threatening ones only.”

Boyd was still wary, but apparently decided resistance was futile and told Stiles the number. 

“Thanks!” Stiles saved the new contact and turned away, creating a new message thread. ‘ _Come buy books for charity, you hermit._ ’

Boyd sighed. “Seriously?”

“It’s life threatening for the animals at the shelter,” Stiles pointed out.

“Help me unpack these last two boxes,” Erica commanded. 

“You are so _rude_.” He helped anyway. 

Once the sale opened up to the public, Stiles wandered away from her table to explore the others, talk to some classmates he hadn’t spoken to in a while. Danny was there with some other lacrosse teammates, so Stiles spent some time talking to them. They weren’t so bad when Jackson wasn’t around, he decided. He wondered if Scott would be here, although he was pretty sure he’d said something about going somewhere with Allison. He rubbed the back of his neck as his skin prickled. He turned. 

A girl with blue hair standing behind a table piled with dusty paperbacks stared back at him.

“What?”

She blinked, then offered an uncomfortable smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to stare.”

He relaxed. He’d never seen her before, but she could’ve been someone’s older sister, watching the table for them. Plus, he would’ve noticed her bright blue hair at least if she’d been following him all day. He approached her table mostly to be polite. 

Her smile widened. 

Stiles feigned interest in a couple Iris Johanson books with beat up covers, humming like he was considering them. He glanced up and noticed her playing with her earring, which was shaped like a skeletal finger. He shuddered. 

“See anything you like?” Her voice was vaguely suggestive, but not in a way he recognized. Like she _really_ wanted him to buy a book. 

His gaze dropped to the table again and caught on a tiny book, travel-journal sized, really, with a gleaming gold cover and sprayed edges. There was a bundle of straw stamped on the front. He looked back up at her, noticing the earring once again. “Does your earring mean something?”

She looked surprised, then wickedly pleased—so wicked that he took half a step back automatically. “My friends and I made them, why?” She stared intensely into his eyes until it felt like it required physical effort to hold her gaze. 

Stiles looked away. He gestured at the gold book. “How much?”

“You want _this_ book?” She tapped her long, black-painted nails on the cover. 

“Yes,” he muttered, because why else would he ask?

“Five dollars.”

He dug out the cash he kept in his wallet and paid her, then grabbed the book. He jumped as it pressed into his palm, familiar and strange. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, watching him with a grin, “it’s not real gold.”

“Uh-huh.” She was a little creepy. He left with the book, backing away from her table and into the crowd, so she couldn’t stare at him any longer. He turned the book over in his hands, examining it from every angle. The stamped straw was unmistakable. He probably should throw the book away. Someone _clearly_ wanted him to read about faeries and they weren’t being subtle about it. But was it to benefit or harm him? Knowing more about anything seemed like the best way to be prepared, but these books…

He flipped it open. Helpless laughter spilled from his mouth at the detailed renderings of naked humans and fey creatures. _Faerie Revels_ was written across the top in deep green ink. The page detailed the revels faerie courts held, the faerie wine and fruit that made humans behave as if they’d been enchanted, made them dance until they collapsed with exhaustion, made them susceptible to commands—charms, the book called them. Faerie charm. Stiles flipped through page after page of pictures of humans being played with like dolls for fey entertainment. 

He closed the book, shuddering. He’d have to look again later, because if faeries existed, they would need to know how to keep from being charmed or trapped by faerie foods. He tucked the book in his backpack and searched the crowd for Erica’s table. He’d gotten turned around somehow, so her table was ahead of him, the direction he’d been walking, instead of behind him. 

Erica spotted him first. “Where’d you _go?_ ” Her voice was delighted, eyes bright, while Boyd buried his face in his hands. 

Stiles saw _why_ a second later, as a freshman stepped out of his way. 

Derek was across the aisle of tables, glaring at a battered stack of Goosebumps books while Isaac leaned against the table trying to look aloof and mostly managing blank-faced.

Jackson was a couple tables down, scoffing at a pile of romance novels Lydia was perusing. 

Stiles sidled closer to Erica. “Has he been knocked over the head? Drugged?”

“Nope.” She grinned wildly. “He just showed up and said if we weren’t coming over, we’ll practice training our senses here.” She bared her teeth at a girl staring at her. “The porn is at the bottom,” she simpered. 

The girl flushed and darted to another table. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get them to buy?”

“She wasn’t going to buy anything,” Erica sniffed. “Anyway, we’re training here today.”

“Oh, and what’ve you learned?”

She examined her nails. “That you’re annoyed and Derek likes books. Who knew?”

_I knew,_ he thought, and wasn’t sure why. He turned away, watching Isaac scan the book titles beside him like he couldn’t help it. 

A group of parents shuffled by, blocking the entire aisle for a moment. One of them scratched his back and a long, hairless tail like a rat’s coiled out, curling left and right, before disappearing completely. 

Stiles whipped around, but Erica was selling a book and Boyd was on the phone; neither had noticed. He craned his neck, but whoever it was had blended into the crowd so neatly that he wasn’t sure which parent it was. The one with the AC/DC shirt, or the green polo? Jeans or khakis? He couldn’t remember. 

“-pick _that_ book?” Erica laughed. 

“I like it,” Isaac said defensively, clutching his purchase protectively. 

Stiles blinked, disoriented, and found their table surrounded. 

“It’s a kids’ book, though.” 

“A lot of children’s books are more clever than people give them credit for,” Lydia said without looking up from her phone. “Besides, a book is a book.”

Isaac stuck his tongue out, prompting a laugh from Boyd at Erica’s expense. 

She rolled her eyes. 

“Have you done what I said?” Derek asked before they could start teasing each other again. 

“Yeah, but I don’t get _why_ you want us to know what the girl across the yard had for lunch or who Tyler just dumped.”

“So you can practice picking…things…out in a crowd,” he growled, lowering his voice. 

Stiles looked over his shoulder, but just like all day, no one was there.

“Where’s Scott?” 

He looked at Isaac. “Um, with Allison. Hey, I gotta go.”

Even Derek looked up at that. “Excuse me?”

“Home. I have to go home. See you later.” 

“You’re the one who-” he began, furious, but Stiles was already walking away. 

A kid in a rusty red knit cap darted through the crowd, slipping between people like they didn’t even notice he was there. 

Stiles sped up, ducking between annoyed classmates and their parents, and found himself at the edge of the parking lot. The kid was gone. 

Stiles looked around, but it was clear he’d lost him. He rubbed his eyes. Not his problem. He needed to go home, the heat and the crowd was making him feel weird. 

Faerie revels were held from dusk to dawn, favored times of the fey. Between times; not quite evening or night, and not quite night or morning. Consuming faerie fruit or faerie wine could drive a mortal insane, or trap them in the faerie world, or cause them to dance to death. The little golden book wasn’t very clear about which would happen, or if all were possibilities, or if “none” was an option at all. Never enter a faerie circle without gifts. Never join a dancing group of faeries or you’ll dance until someone stops you or you die. Faeries cannot lie. 

Stiles’s gaze tracked back up to that line. _Cannot lie._

“‘But they often tell creative truths and speak in riddles’,” he read aloud.

Faeries do not do favors for free. The fair folk do not like to be thanked. 

Stiles rubbed his eyes. It was like a lore and etiquette book at the same time. He dutifully noted everything in bullet points on index cards. He frowned at his overflowing corkboard and pinned the newest cards to the wall beside it. He’d deal with his father’s wrath _after_ he figured out why he was being stalked by faerie lore. 

It was a mess. His notes, the books, the feeling of being watched. 

He stretched his back over his chair and stood. He needed to get away from this. He looked out his window. 

The cruiser was parked in the driveway beside the jeep. How long had he been home? Stiles wondered why he hadn’t come to prod him out of his room already. 

He pushed thoughts of faeries and danced-to-death humans out of his mind.

John wasn’t in the kitchen or living room. Stiles wondered if he’d imagined the cruiser until he spotted the backdoor open. John was in the back garden fighting the uprising of weeds. It was something he did when he was thinking of Claudia.

Stiles wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped outside. “Need any help?”

He looked up, eyes narrowed from the sun. “Sure. We let this get away from us, huh?”

“A little bit, yeah.” He clattered down the steps to kneel beside his father. They weren’t great gardeners, but they’d kept some of the flowers and green plants alive, despite the occasional weed invasion. Stiles plucked and twisted and patted dirt with practiced hands, muscle memory doing most of the work for him. 

They didn’t talk. They usually didn’t when they did this. It was easier to just do the work, thinking their own thoughts, than to try to talk about what had sent John reaching for something he and Claudia had created together. 

Stiles’s hand hovered over a pink-purple flower, conflicted. It looked like a weed, but it was vibrant and far from the other plants, almost out of the garden soil.

“It’s thistle,” John said unexpectedly. “A weed.”

“Oh.” Stiles twisted the flower off and pocketed it, then yanked the rest of the weed. He found two more just like it and pocketed the blossoms before he ripped up the weed. 

The sun was beating down on their backs, relentless, drying them up under its harsh rays. 

“Come on, let’s get some water and clean up so we can eat.” John clapped Stiles on the shoulder as he stood, squeezing lightly. In the kitchen, he washed his hands and forearms briskly and yanked open the towel drawer. “Try not to get dirt all over, okay? You did a really good job vacuuming the other day and I don’t-”

Stiles looked over when he stopped. “Dad?”

He reached into the towel drawer and pulled out a handful of gold-amber straw, baffled. 

Stiles’s mind flashed to the acorns. “Oh.”

“Why is this in here?”

“I—I must’ve put it there on accident. It’s…supposed to be on my desk.”

“For what?”

“A project.” He scrambled to think of what sort of project would require _straw._ “For myself. Sometimes, um, serious gardeners will use hay or straw as mulch and I was trying to see what the difference was.”

John lifted a brow. “Did you figure it out?”

“Not yet. I lost my sample.” He grinned, hopefully naturally enough that he wouldn’t question him. “I can take it to my room.”

John’s eyes narrowed, hand tightening enough to crush the straw. “Alright,” he said slowly. He handed it over. “Stiles?” he called before he reached the stairs. 

“Yeah?”

“There’s not something you’re keeping from me, is there?”

_Again?_ That was what he meant, even though he didn’t say it. 

Stiles shook his head. “Nope. It’s just straw, Dad.” He waved it above his head, then darted upstairs. He closed his bedroom door and stared at the straw. Straw and acorns, laid out for him to find. Why, though? What were they used for? Communication? Bait? Gifts? He’d read that accepting gifts from fey was dangerous, and that rejecting them was more so. 

He rubbed his eyes and took the straw to his nightstand, piling it as neatly as he could beside the acorns. After a second, he pulled the thistle blossoms out of his pocket. 

The petals were a little crushed, but mostly still intact. These, he’d found on his own, although he wasn’t sure if they would be useful or not. The internet wasn’t proving to be a reliable source of information about faeries. He crawled halfway under his bed to retrieve the shoe box he kept tucked away with his bat. Inside were jars of mistletoe and mountain ash, labeled in permanent marker. They were, aside from wolfsbane, his only weapon against supernaturals who physically outmatched him at every turn. He tipped the flowers into the box and sat back on his heels, cradling it in his lap. As arsenals went, it was pathetic. 

He looked at the acorns and straw. He needed to look those up. And the thistle. He needed more information, he needed to know which questions he wanted answered, and who he could ask. 

After a hurried, distracted dinner of spinach-ricotta-chicken _something_ , Stiles cited his afternoon of helping with the book sale as a reason to retreat to his room. He had homework he hadn’t done yet. He should get that finished, right? John didn’t question him. 

He wasn’t doing homework. He’d finish that later. He needed to learn everything he could about faerie lore before he asked for help. There was no way he was being the wimpy human who shouted _MONSTER!_ every time he felt a draft, which meant gathering proof before he talked to the pack. The more facts he had, the harder it would be for them to brush it off as him being paranoid. Or jumpy.

He cleared off his desk first, removing anything that wasn’t faerie related. He dug out a new pack of index cards, a couple pens, and some highlighters for color coding, then turned his desk lamp on. He made sure his window was locked, door shut, and grabbed the brown book and the gold one. He was done stumbling around in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

The corkboard and wall above Stiles’s desk was crowded full of faerie lore, even the stuff that contradicted itself. Looking at it all, Stiles had his doubts. It was possible some other supernatural was messing with him. He’d even considered the idea that Jackson and Isaac were playing some weird prank on him. If so, they were playing cool really well. 

No, something _outside_ was doing this, most likely supernatural. He had no idea _why_ a supernatural would try to make him think he was being stalked by faeries if it _wasn’t_ faeries, but he also had no idea why faeries would warn him about themselves if they had nefarious plans. He threw out the theory that it was another supernatural creature for the moment.

He was dealing with faeries, in one way or another. What did they want, why were they leaving him things, and what did the books mean? None of his research had definite answers for him. The fey _did_ have a reputation for whisking mortals away, but mainly infants or people with talent—artists, singers, dancers, architects… Stiles didn’t fit in either of those categories. He was pretty good at some things, but he didn’t have any natural talent in anything, nothing that would entice the fey. 

What did they want with him? And why were they using such cryptic ways to get to him?

He shifted in his seat, looking for another cluster of index cards, labeled: **Protection**. He needed to find whatever was leaving the books, following him, and leaving _things_ (straw, acorns) for him to find. That meant faerie hunting, essentially, which he wasn’t doing without protection, without a weapon.

The internet seemed to agree on some things to guard against faeries: iron would burn them, rowan berries would keep the mind clear, mistletoe and thistle blossom would repel the smaller, less powerful fey and offer _some_ protection against the bigger ones. 

Iron seemed to be the best option for a weapon. Stiles already had mistletoe and thistle blossoms, so he would string those together to make a protective talisman; he wished he had rowan berries, since keeping a clear head seemed like a fantastic strategy when dealing with creatures that could compel humans to do whatever they wanted, but he had no idea where to get any.

Aside from protection, he also needed help. Help from someone who knew about the supernatural, not some idiot on the internet chattering about pure beings of light helping with household chores. If he wouldn’t ask Derek—and he _couldn’t_ —then he needed Deaton.

He chewed his lip, gaze darting over to the **Real?** cluster of cards. He couldn’t just waltz into the animal clinic and demand information. 

“Scott,” he mumbled. He’d start with Scott. He’d tell Scott what was going on. They had plans to get together Friday evening for homework and gaming, so he could talk to him alone and, with Scott’s help, he could go to Deaton. 

He stood. He’d rather get his iron weapons _now_ , just in case anything else happened. The hardware store probably had something made of iron. Anything he could hold and swing, he’d take. 

John was still at work, so there was no one to question where he was going as he thumped outside. 

Scott called him as he was buckling in.

“Hey,” Stiles said, cheerful. Maybe Scott wanted to come hang out and they could talk now.

“ _Hey,_ ” Scott said breathlessly. “ _Can you give me a hand with something?_ ”

He frowned. “Are you okay? Should we call-”

“ _Not that kind of help, I’m okay. I just need a favor._ ”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.” He hung up puzzled. 

Scott was waiting in his driveway surrounded by about four boxes when Stiles arrived. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, of course. What’s going on?” He looked over the boxes and then away. Surely Melissa wasn’t kicking Scott out.

“Mom wanted me to take this stuff to Goodwill but Allison called and she’s really upset, so I said I could come talk. Please, can you take them for me?”

Stiles tried not to gape at him. He wanted to leave. Wanted to yell, “ _You are not the only one with things going on!_ ” But how could Scott know? Stiles hadn’t told him anything, hadn’t told him something was bothering him. He could tell him now, but Stiles wasn’t sure what Scott would do. Would he stay to help Stiles, or would he go to Allison still, leaving Stiles to deal with stalker faeries on his own? Stiles didn’t want to know the answer, so he refused to ask the question. “Sure,” he managed after a too-long silence during which Scott had started to look concerned. “I was going that direction anyway.”

Scott relaxed and beamed at him. “Thanks, man. You’re the best.”

“Yes, I am, and you owe me.”

“This weekend,” Scott said with a grunt, lifting two of the boxes at once. “Just you, me, and a _mountain_ of curly fries and video games.” He loaded them into the backseat. 

“Yeah,” Stiles snorted. “Sounds great.” He let Scott do all the lifting—he had super strength, after all. 

“Thanks again, Stiles.” He grinned. “This weekend. I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles waved him off. He needed gas, so he headed for the fuel station after leaving Scott’s house, grumbling to himself. It really wouldn’t have been a big deal if Stiles hadn’t spent most of the last two evenings stressed and researching creatures stalking him. It wasn’t Scott’s fault Stiles hadn’t told anyone; lycanthropy had not granted him mind reading powers. He sighed and parked at pump seven, banging his head on the wheel once before getting out. He caught sight of the boxes in the backseat and rolled his eyes before moving to open his tank.

Derek walked out of the gas station while Stiles was waiting for his pump to click off. He noticed Stiles at the same time and looked at the bright purple slushie in his hand with deep regret. 

“What flavor _is_ that?” Stiles asked, not bothering to raise his voice even though Derek was across the lot. “I thought you were more of a protein shake guy.”

Derek glowered and stomped toward him. “Isaac likes the red and blue flavors mixed together,” he growled. “It isn’t mine.” 

“Ah.” Stiles wanted to ask why he was getting Isaac a custom slushie, but Derek beat him to it. 

“What’re you doing here?”

He looked at the nozzle in his car. “Getting gas.” When Derek rolled his eyes, he added, “Going to the hardware store.” 

That got his attention. “For what?” He actually looked interested. 

“Iron,” Stiles replied, because why lie? He saw the display clicking toward his usual fifteen gallons and rested a hand on the nozzle, prepared to stop it if the automatic shut off failed. 

Derek continued to stand there, Isaac’s rapidly melting slushie in hand. “You look tired,” he said gruffly. “And you’re frustrated. Why?”

Stiles glanced up, then away, busying himself with replacing the nozzle. “I’ve just got homework to do and Scott asked me to drop off some boxes at Goodwill for him.”

Derek scoffed. “Why didn’t Scott take them himself?”

“He’s going to talk to Allison.” He grabbed his receipt. 

Derek rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, get over it, man.”

“No.” He glared at the side of the jeep. “Why do you do so much for him?”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Stiles’s hand clenched on the receipt. “They’re _just_ —”

“He tried to kill you,” Derek said, ticking up a finger, “he ditches you constantly for his girlfriend, he asks you to do errands for him when you’re clearly tired, _and_ you try to help him join my pack—I noticed.”

Stiles bared his teeth and straightened up to his full height. “We’re best friends. We help each other. I assume you wouldn’t understand that.”

Derek’s eyes gleamed red, just a haze of crimson over the blue-green briefly. “What do you think a pack is, moron? Except we _notice_ when something is wrong with each other.”

“Nothing is _wrong_ with me,” Stiles spat. “I’m allowed to do favors for my friends when they ask, I don’t know who you-”

Derek scoffed again. “Whatever, Stiles. Good luck.” He turned on his heel. 

Stiles shouted, “Your slushie is melted!” because he didn’t want Derek to have the last word. 

Derek flipped him off without looking back. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and slammed into the jeep. The sun nearly blinded him, so he jerked the visor down.

Small, bright blue flowers with spiny petals rained into his lap. 

He growled and scooped them up, dumping them onto the passenger seat. The flowers looked real and fresh, not wilted or crushed at all. He moved the visor up and down, but there weren’t any clues or even leftover flowers. He rolled his eyes. 

He needed to get rid of Scott’s boxes and get to the hardware store before whatever was stalking him made a move beyond leaving weird plants for him to find. 

He helped the employee unload the boxes at Goodwill so he could get out of there quicker. He started to pass the third box over when a glint of shiny green caught his eye. He grabbed it impulsively. 

A deep green leather book, stamped with an acorn. He’d bet anything that the flowers on his front seat were the same kind that was stamped on the cover of the first book he’d found. He passed the box over. “Sorry, this wasn’t supposed to be in there.” He tucked the book under his arm and gave them the last box. “Thank you.” He got back in the jeep while they prepared the receipt, staring at the book.

He didn’t understand the books. Why give him information if they had intent to harm? Not that it really told him anything important. To make him curious? Bait? He didn’t know, and wasn’t sure how to find out, either. He put the book in the passenger seat and started the jeep.

Lowes had a bigger selection than the local place, so Stiles headed there. From what he could gather, things weren’t made from iron that often anymore, or not exclusively, so the bigger the selection, the better his chances. He glanced at the book, tossed carelessly on the flowers. “What do you want?” he asked as he parked. “Why are you giving me this?”

He turned the jeep off. He hoped he got a chance to find the one messing with him after he found an iron hammer. Then they’d get a chance to see how it felt to beat their head against something completely uselessly. Assholes. Figured. Werewolves were assholes, why not faeries?

He found an employee inside. “I need things made of iron. Preferably heavy, long-reaching things.”

She looked him over, like serial killers had markers only floor workers could see. “Alright.” She closed her register, leaving two other cashiers cleaning their counters looking bored. “This way. I know we have iron fire pokers and definitely one style of iron hammer.”

“Great. Let’s get both.”

She tucked soft brown curls behind her ear. “You got it. Are you doing a project?” Her deep brown eyes flicked to him and away. “Need any help with—with building?”

Stiles figured they were supposed to ask, even if they were concerned the customer might be planning a murder spree. He shook his head. “Just some experiments for a chemistry project,” he lied. 

Her brows went up. “Some project.”

“Ha, yeah.” He eyed her, but she _looked_ perfectly human, with round cheeks and fluffy curls. Her nametag said Hal. 

She took him down an aisle filled with tool sets and single tools, wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers…hammers. She gestured at a hammer with a cylindrical head, a yellow neck, and a heavy-duty black rubber grip.

Stiles grabbed it. “Fire poker? I need different sized test subjects,” he fabricated, offering a winning smile. 

She lifted a brow. “Okay.” She turned and grabbed a plastic box of nails off the shelf behind them. “Here, you’ll want these as well.”

Iron nails. Not bad. Something he could keep in his pocket. “Thanks.” 

Her mouth twitched before she turned away. “The fire pokers will be in housewares. This way.”

Stiles followed her, hefting the hammer. He could use it. It wasn’t so heavy that he might lose his grip, but it was heavy enough to do some damage. Preferably a lot of damage, definitely to the head. 

The housewares aisle was wide, filled with chandeliers, fire place models, and light switches of all shapes and colors. 

Hal led Stiles to the single fire pokers. “So you don’t have to buy an entire set.” She pointed at a display of ornate black fire pokers. “Those have the longest reach.”

Stiles picked one and hefted it, testing the grip. It would have to do. It wasn’t meant for swinging or stabbing, obviously, but he thought he could use it. Without losing his grip on it was another question. “Okay, I’ll take it. Thank you for your help.”

Her mouth twisted into a strange half-smile. “Paula can ring you up at the front,” she said. “Let us know if you need any more help.”

Supplies paid for, Stiles went back to the jeep and locked himself in. He set the bag on the floor on the passenger side, where he could reach the fire poker if he needed to. He looked at the book, felt his face settle into a scowl.

The parking lot was less than half full, so, with a glance at the time, he grabbed the book.

It hummed in his hands. 

The inside was blank of information, just like the other two, and the first page…spoke of faerie paths. 

_The fair folk dwell in between places, between times, dawn and dusk, doorways, places between the mortal realm and Faerie. Faerie paths are a mortal’s best way to enter Faerie or encounter one of the folk. There are many ways for a mortal to find a path._

Stiles skimmed the rest of the page. He needed to talk to Scott tomorrow, not Friday. This couldn’t wait. Talk to Scott, get ahold of Deaton, find out if this was for real.

And then, maybe, talk to a faerie. 

Scott was hard to find at school the next day, and he wasn’t responding to Stiles’s texts. When he finally found him, he and Allison were arguing in whispers outside of Mrs. Terrance’s economics class. Allison spotted Stiles first and straightened, eyes going wide. 

“Hey.” He nodded at her, then whirled on Scott. “I need to talk to you.”

“We can talk at lunch,” Scott replied instantly, already leaning around him to see Allison. “We-”

“Scott, I need to talk to you this afternoon. Not here,” he added between his teeth. “Can you come over or not?”

“Well-” he began, eyes darting to Allison.

“Yes, he can. He doesn’t have plans.” Allison peered at Stiles’s face. “Maybe you should go home?”

“I can finish the day. Scott?”

He looked hurt by Allison insisting he had no plans. “Yeah, I’ll stop by. I have a project I should work on anyway.”

“Thank you.” The bell rang. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, then waved at the both of them before he left. He just hoped his Modern History teacher was feeling merciful, because he didn’t have time for detention. 

Erica tried to catch his eye when he slid into his seat, but he studiously ignored her in favor of digging out his homework. 

He wasn’t going to ask Derek for help, which meant he wasn’t talking to his betas about it. If Deaton couldn’t help him, he’d consider Derek. 

Erica stalked Stiles after the bell, but it was Boyd who caught him, halfway through the gymnasium door. 

“Derek wants Scott at Saturday’s meeting.” 

Stiles scowled. “Well, I want a car with air conditioning, but it doesn’t look good for either of us. Excuse me.”

“He wants you there, too,” Boyd said before Stiles could squeeze past him. “Not just Scott.”

“Derek has a phone and can use it if he wants my help.” Stiles ducked around him before he could block the door again. _There,_ he thought, satisfied. _Let Derek chew on that._

John was home when Stiles got there, in the kitchen with bags all over the counters. 

“Need help?” Stiles dropped his book bag on the stairs. 

John shook his head. “Nah, I’m gonna get dinner started in a minute, then I’ll put it all away.”

Stiles leaned against the wall. “Scott’s coming over so we can do our homework.”

“Actual homework or you’re going to do a couple problems and then play video games?”

Stiles laughed. “Definitely no video games.” 

He turned to face him, brows lifted. “Alright. Is he staying for dinner?”

“Uh…maybe.” Depending on whether he laughed in Stiles’s face or not.

John looked skeptical. “What kind of homework are you doing?”

“Literature. An extra credit project.” What a terrible lie.

“What about?”

“Shakespeare,” he blurted, since that seemed like a safe bet.

“Hmm. Okay. I’ll make extra, and you can take leftovers for lunch if he doesn’t stay.”

The doorbell rang and a second later, Scott came in, shouting a greeting to John.

He waved Stiles away. “Go on, go do your work.”

Scott made himself at home in Stiles’s room, as he always had, spreading his homework across the bed and studying a math problem set like they were incomprehensible. 

Stiles dug his own homework out reluctantly. He _needed_ to talk to Scott, but now that he was here, it seemed strange. Dangerous. He looked at his wall, overflowing with index cards in various ink colors, highlighted by priority. **Help** was in orange, the closest he had to red. He straightened his shoulders. He needed help. He took a breath.

“Did you get any of what Mr. Sanchez said today?” Scott asked, scribbling halfheartedly at his problem sets. “I have no idea what this is.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, wimping out. “Let me show you.” He’d take a few minutes to fortify himself while he showed Scott his method to memorize the formula, then he would tell him.

They moved from math to literature before Scott remembered that Stiles had wanted to talk to him and started pestering him about it.

“Okay, okay.” Stiles leaned back in his desk chair, rolling his pen between his fingers. He looked at his corkboard again, wondering how Scott hadn’t figured it out yet anyway. “I just…what do you think of faeries?”

Scott’s face twisted. “Faeries? Like Tinkerbell?”

“More like Titania and Oberon,” Stiles muttered. 

“I mean…I don’t know. No one’s said anything about faeries.” His eyes danced a little. “Why, are you looking to make some wishes?”

“That’s _genies,_ asshole.” 

“Oh, right. Aladdin.” He scratched the back of his head. “Are you seeing fluttery little people? With butterfly wings?” Then he laughed. “Be right back, I gotta pee. We’ll talk about the faeries,” he added, rolling to his feet and patting Stiles on the shoulder as he passed. 

Stiles glared at his back as he left. Then he sighed and spun his chair back to his desk. He just had to explain to Scott what had happened so far, show him the books, and he’d stop doubting Stiles. He set his pen to his homework, prepared to bullshit his way through questions about Edgar Allen Poe and what he might’ve meant or thought as he was writing _The Masque of the Red Death._

He tested his pen, then moved to the space he’d left for question two. _Poe uses color to_

His hand jerked left, leaving a deep black line in the page; he tried to lift his arm, cursing, but it stayed put, the pen tracing mindless circles in the margin. Slowly, his hand moved back to the center of the page. 

He grasped his wrist with his left hand, panic making his breath wheeze. His page looked fuzzy around the edges. 

_M_ his hand wrote on its own, in delicate, curly script that certainly didn’t belong to him.

He sucked in a shuddering breath, gripping his arm tighter. He’d read about Alien Hand Syndrome, but nothing like this. He squeezed his nails into his wrist until they left cuts, but even though he could feel the pain, could feel the paper under his hand and the pen in his fingers, his right hand moved fluidly across the page, without any direction from him. 

_Mortals who cheat pay the price in blood._

The pen clattered out of his grasp; his arm jerked up, nearly knocking him in the face. He snatched the paper, bringing it up nearly to his nose. 

The words gleamed as the ink dried, the paper dented from the pressure. 

His wrist throbbed where he’d grabbed it. His heart was going to explode. 

“Son of a bitch!” John’s voice was muffled.

Stiles had made it to the stairs when Scott barreled out of the bathroom. 

“Blood,” he growled, hurtling down the stairs. 

Stiles flung himself after him.

John was in the kitchen, hunched over the sink cursing. On the counter next to him was a cut watermelon and a blood spattered knife. 

“Dad?” Stiles croaked. 

He grimaced over his shoulder. “Damn knife slipped. Scott, get me a towel, would you?” 

Scott hurried across the room.

Stiles flexed his hand, gaze locked on the knife.

Scott hissed. “We probably have to go to urgent care for some stitches, Sheriff.”

“Perfect.” He glanced at Stiles, then jerked his head. “Go get the keys to the jeep. Best if you drive. Stiles?” He raised his voice. “Do you want to stay here-”

He jolted. “No. No, I’m coming with. Can I—let me see?” 

John looked skeptical, but shuffled aside so Stiles could join him at the sink.

There was too much blood to really see the wound along the side of his finger, but from what Stiles could see, it didn’t look like a clean slice. It almost looked like a bite mark.

Scott had to drive; Stiles wasn’t sure he could trust his hands and John looked like he expected Stiles to swoon.

The urgent care was closer than the hospital, and way less crowded. They had John back within minutes of Stiles finishing his paperwork.

Dr. Neely, a joyful, round cheeked man with popping green eyes, got to work immediately. “Wow, that’s a juicy one,” he said with a chuckle as he settled in to start stitching.

John laughed when Stiles groaned. 

“I’m guessing…cooking wound?”

“I fought a watermelon and lost.”

Stiles watched from the corner of his eye, but John, Neely, and Nurse Franklin…none of them seemed to notice that the knife wound looked odd. He tried to look closer while they were working, but it wasn’t until the wound was being cleaned and smeared with iodine that Stiles finally saw it clearly. 

Four deep gashes, smaller cuts between, the bite of something with small but powerful teeth. 

Stiles turned away, pressing his fist to his mouth.

“Oh, he’s squeamish about blood,” John said. 

Stiles opened his right hand, staring at his fingers. _Pay the price in blood._ Just not his, apparently. What did cheating mean? He was _cheating_ by going to Scott? He wasn’t playing a _game._

Were they? Was that what this was?

“Stiles? You coming?” John touched his shoulder. 

He jumped. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Let’s go. How’s your hand? You should stay home tomorrow to protect your stitches—and definitely stay on paperwork after that-” He kept talking as they left, collecting Scott from the waiting room. He had to figure out his next move. Alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles didn’t realize how long he’d been at his desk until his first alarm of the morning went off, letting him know it was time to start coming to terms with waking up. He sat back, blinking his burning eyes. He’d started off researching Alien Hand Syndrome, even though he knew that wasn’t what had happened. Then he’d spiraled into more possible faerie research, specifically games and pranks involving mortals. That rabbit hole had been both horrifying and disheartening. He flexed his hand. It still felt strange and terrifying, to remember feeling his own hand move across the paper without telling it to.

Kind of like a hypnic jerk, only longer, and precise movements rather than spastic. 

He wondered why, if the fey could force him to write that threat, they couldn’t just…force him to do whatever they were trying to do and get it over with? He turned his hand over, then clenched his fist. 

He dragged himself to the bathroom to get ready for school, only to run into John in the hallway. “Morning. How’s your hand?”

John looked him over. “It hurts, but I’ll live.” His brow creased. “You sick?”

Stiles shook his head. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep. My own fault,” he admitted, fighting a yawn. He didn’t exactly want to rush his injured father out of his way, but he did want to get ready with enough time for coffee so he could just get the day over with. 

“I’m calling you out of school today. You can complete your work over the weekend.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re my dad, right?”

John lifted his brows. “Yes…You look exhausted. You can get some sleep, then help me out for the day. We both deserve a day off.”

Stiles didn’t budge. “What’s your name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Humor me, Dad. I want to make sure you didn’t hit your head yesterday.”

He rolled his eyes. “John Stilinski.”

Stiles knew—or hoped—faeries couldn’t lie, but he wasn’t sure if that counted. If you were acting as a person, were you that person, technically, while acting as them? “How much did I weigh when I was born?”

“Stiles…” he sighed. 

“Please?”

“Eight pounds, three ounces. You were twenty-two inches long and born ten minutes after midnight,” he added. “Did I pass your test?”

“I guess,” he grumbled. “Thanks. Do you want me to make breakfast?”

John ruffled his hair with his good hand. “Nah, go back to bed. We’ll eat a late breakfast or early lunch or something later.”

“Thanks.” He tipped forward, hugging him blindly, and stumbled to the bathroom. He’d feel better after using the toilet and brushing his teeth. He _did_ need to get to sleep. He’d be able to concentrate better if he let his brain rest for a while. 

He kept his room dark and changed into clean pajamas, then crawled into his bed. The sheets were cool, the pillow sinking under his head just right. He closed his eyes and let his breath even out, deep and slow.

What did the faeries _want_ with him? Why the books, the plants? The threat? Why hurt his father because he asked for help instead of hurting him? What was the point and most importantly, _why him?_ He was surrounded by werewolves. Weren’t there other, easier to reach mortals to mess with? But then, mortals couldn’t typically see the fey unless they showed themselves. 

Stiles rolled onto his back, glaring at the ceiling, the weak strands of light poking through his blinds. How was he supposed to sleep? His phone lit up.

Captain Eyebrows had texted. ‘ _Bring Scott this afternoon_ ’

Stiles grunted and shoved it under his pillow. His eyes were burning, he was so tired. He needed to stop thinking for a few minutes, long enough to fall asleep. He squeezed his eyes shut. _No thinking._

Derek needed to talk to Scott when he wanted Scott. The two needed to start communicating. 

_Obviously_ Stiles was the one trying to subtly nudge Scott into the pack, but that wasn’t the point. 

The point was, if they were going to be a pack, they had to talk to each other. 

Stiles rolled onto his side. Not his problem today. Today his problem was a nap and faeries. 

And John. Making sure he didn’t infect his hand or pop his stitches trying to defeat another watermelon. 

He clenched his eyes closed tighter. No werewolf problems, no school. Just sleep. When he got up, he’d make a braided bracelet out of the thistle flowers and mistletoe he had; braids were their own kind of protection, he was pretty sure, and that way he could concentrate on stopping them without worrying about being controlled. 

Light seared through his eyelids. 

Stiles groaned and threw his hands over his eyes. He must’ve drifted off, because the sunlight seemed far too powerful for seven in the morning.

Who’d opened the blinds?

He sat up, one hand flapping out for the pile of nails he’d been keeping on the nightstand. All but one scattered, rolling to the floor with muted thumps. He scrambled to his knees, meager weapon clutched between his fingers while his vision slowly cleared. 

Derek frowned at him. He had his hands in his pockets, shoulders curved in. There was a rip in the arm of his t-shirt. 

Stiles clenched his nail, considering throwing it at his head, then sighed and relaxed. “What are you doing in my room? Why did you come in the _window?_ ”

“Boyd said you weren’t at school and you didn’t answer me.”

“Your answer is breaking and entering?”

He looked at the nails on Stiles’s floor. “Those are not adequate weapons for stopping a violent intruder.”

“I’ll make sure to have my dad shoot you next time.” Stiles untangled his legs from his blankets, grumpy from his rude awakening. According to his phone, it was only ten, and he’d missed three texts. Two were from Scott. “I repeat: Why are you here and wouldn’t the front door suffice?”

Derek lifted his gaze from the nails. “Sheriff Stilinski is here.”

“Yes, he lives here.” Stiles rubbed gunk from his eyes. “Look, I’ve had about three hours of sleep, so can we skip the guessing game? What do you want?”

“I want you and Scott at the training session this afternoon,” he said slowly. “Do you have _mistletoe_ in here?” His nose twitched. 

Stiles snapped, “Yes.”

“Why? It’s poison to Scott too, you know.”

“Because I am surrounded by werewolves who keep giving me bruises, so I’m taking precautions.” He glared, daring Derek to order him to get rid of it.

“Just hit them back.” He rolled his eyes. “You have a pretty good kick.”

“I can’t do that in school, I’ll get suspended.”

Derek looked unimpressed with Beacon Hills High’s no violence policy. “Then hit them with your hand.”

“How about _none_ of us hit each other.”

“They’re playing with you.” 

“I am not a toy.” He swung his legs off the bed. “The hitting needs to stop or they need to learn to control their strength.” 

“What do you think all the training is for?”

“Maiming lessons?” he guessed. “As for this afternoon, you can try to get Scott to go, but I’m busy.”

“With what?”

Stiles clenched his fists. What were the odds he could tell Derek and they could catch the faeries before they hurt anyone? It had happened in _minutes_ yesterday. “Human stuff,” he muttered. “I need to sleep.”

“Are you sick?” The words came out halting and awkward, like asking after someone’s wellbeing was such a foreign concept to him that the words didn’t want to form. 

“I am tired.” He squinted at the window, his lopsided blinds where Derek had burst in. “Did you need anything else?”

He looked around as if searching for a reason to stay. “No.” He didn’t move, hands still in his pockets. “Next time one of them hits you, kick them.”

“How about I start pepper spraying _all_ of your out of control betas until their _alpha_ teaches them not to break the human!”

“They’re roughhousing, not trying to hurt you.” He shuffled his feet. “I’ll talk to them.”

“Good.” Stiles didn’t know how to say “now get out” when Derek wasn’t being entirely rude. “It’s a little weird to come through the window.”

He sighed.

“I’m just saying, you could knock.”

“Sheriff-”

“On the window,” Stiles clarified. “Instead of bursting in.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Or just wait for me to answer like a normal person.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’ll go over well next time you get almost killed by something.” 

Stiles eyed him, wondering if he should address that or not. Derek was worried about him? Or worried he would give away pack secrets if he got kidnapped? “Well, true,” he said at last. “Blanket permission for entry if I’ve been kidnapped or maimed.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“We can sign it in triplicate.” Stiles thought about shooing Derek again, but that didn’t seem to be working. “I’m gonna go get something to eat.”

Derek turned his head, glaring out the window. “If you can’t get Scott to come to training, you should still show up.”

“For my super awesome self-defense pointers?”

His face flushed a dull pink, barely visible. “No.”

_Yes._ Stiles was totally going to make a lesson plan. His face fell. As long as he hadn’t been killed by faeries, of course. He thought of the charmed humans, compelled to harm themselves, and shuddered. 

“Why didn’t you sleep?”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. Derek had officially been in his bedroom too long. “Researching brain tumors. I’m going to get food and going back to bed,” he said firmly, walking toward the door. He hesitated, then said, “But thanks.” He cleared his throat. “For checking in.” He rushed out of the room without looking back, just in case Derek felt compelled to say something awful or worse—something nice.

John was asleep on the couch, remote resting loosely in his right hand. Stiles crept closer, peering at the stitches; the wound was clearly a bite mark, yet it’d been stitched up properly by a doctor who fully believed it’d come from a kitchen knife. Faerie magic? He wandered to the kitchen in a daze. Was he surrounded by faeries, watching unseen, waiting for him to break some unknown rule in their game so they could punish him? He rubbed his eyes and grabbed the jar of peanut butter and a sleeve of crackers, shuffling out of the room. Whatever their game was, he wasn’t going to play it. Just as soon as he figured out how to make them go away. 

Derek was gone when Stiles got back to his room, the window shut and the blinds fixed. 

Stiles flipped the lock, even though he was sure it’d been locked before Derek’s surprise visit. There was half a muddy shoe print on the sill. Stiles rolled his eyes but didn’t bother wiping it off. He scarfed down a few peanut butter-laden crackers and tipped onto the bed. 

The next time he woke, it was late afternoon, and he had a puddle of drool gathering under his chin. He took a moment to shake off his disorientation before rolling out of bed yawning. He was still groggy the way naps generally left him, but his exhaustion had lessened enough that he could function again. Scott had texted to let him know he was dropping off his homework, and Erica had asked why he wasn’t there. He cleared the demanding messages from Derek without reading them. 

John was awake when he got downstairs, staring morosely into the fridge. 

“Want me to go get a pizza?”

He looked over, brows lifted. 

Stiles shrugged. “Only because you’re injured. This _one_ time.”

“Guess I’d better take advantage while I can, then.” He nodded at the table. “Scott left stuff for you.”

He groaned. “Great, thanks.” He scratched his cheek. “I’ll do it when I get home with the food, I’m too hungry to concentrate.”

“I’ll call the order in so you can just pick it up.”

“Thanks.” He eyed him. “If they hand me a meat lover’s, I’m giving it back.”

John just smiled. 

Stiles shook his head as he left. He wasn’t kidding; pizza was one thing. Pizza, bacon, ham, sausage, and whatever else they tossed on there? Too much all at once. They were going for moderation, which was a lot easier to talk John into than a cold turkey diet…literally. 

Rhett’s Pizza was set near the grocery store and connected to the new sub shop, which Stiles realized would’ve been a better choice for dinner. Too late now, but after he parked, he made a note in his phone about the sandwich shop. 

As he was grabbing for the door to Rhett’s, the door beside him swung open.

Derek and Isaac walked out of the sandwich shop carrying two full bags each. Isaac noticed him first and nodded awkwardly. Derek turned. 

Stiles waved a little, prepared to bolt into the pizza place, but Derek stopped walking. 

Isaac looked uncomfortable, dropping his gaze to the bags in his hand. 

“How is the sheriff?” Derek asked stiltedly. 

Stiles frowned. “Why do you ask?”

Isaac shuffled his feet, face turning red. 

“Scott told us you had to take him to get stitches yesterday.”

“Scott told you?”

“He told Isaac,” he admitted, which made way more sense. 

“I see. Yeah, he’s okay. Thanks,” he said at length. 

Derek nodded.

Stiles jerked his thumb at the door. “I better go get our order.”

“Bye, Stiles.”

Isaac lingered for a second as Derek walked away. “I hope your dad heals quickly,” he rushed out, and followed Derek at a quick clip.

Stiles shook his head, baffled, and went in to get their pizza. 

“They’re ready now,” the cashier said when he told him the name. “Just sign the receipt and I’ll grab them.”

Stiles picked a pen out of the cup and scrawled his last name on the line. He fiddled with the pen while he waited, twisting it between his fingers idly.

It was stuffy in the lobby, as if the air conditioner couldn’t keep up with the heat of the ovens. A chill ran down his back, raising goosebumps along his arms. He looked over his shoulder, but there was no one inside with him. He wished he’d have brought more than the one iron nail in his pocket. 

“Here you go, enjoy!” Troy the cashier pushed two boxes across the counter. 

“Thanks.” Stiles took the boxes and elbowed his way out of the door.

The short walk across the parking lot felt like miles. A moth flew at his face, making him flinch, and across the lot, someone dropped their keys and cursed. His gaze darted around like prey sensing a predator, but it was still light out and there was no one around. 

No one that he could _see._ Faeries weren’t visible to mortals unless they made themselves seen and they could disguise themselves. 

As anyone.

He put the pizzas in the passenger seat, fumbling the pen he’d apparently stolen from the pizza place. He tossed it in his cup holder, annoyed. There was no way he was going _back._ He’d just keep the stupid pen. He started to close the door and froze. 

A string of red berries was draped over his rearview mirror. Rowan berries, he was sure, and plenty of them. He scrambled into his seat and grabbed them, clutching the string so tight he thought he might snap it. “Yes!” He loosened his grip so he didn’t crush any of the berries. “Tha-” He stopped himself. If he was being helped by a faerie, they didn’t like to be thanked. “I needed these,” he finished lamely. 

John was in the bathroom when Stiles got home, so he flung the pizzas on the stovetop and ran for his room. He dug out his shoebox arsenal. 

It took a few tries, but he managed to cut the string and rearrange it so there were two pieces of string with rowan berries, mistletoe berries, and thistle flowers that had somehow not fallen apart. He had a hard time tying them tight enough that he was sure they wouldn’t unravel, then sat back to study the red and white berries, the purple flowers. He took the longer one and tied it around his neck, then snatched up the bracelet. 

John was getting plates down. “Hey, you okay? You took off.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Here.” He held the bracelet out. “Can you wear this?”

John looked at it, holding his hand out. “Sure?”

“For luck,” Stiles said. “It’s supposed to be good luck and I figured, hey, who knows.”

“Sure kid.” He slipped it over his wrist despite his clear reluctance. “Thanks. Here, get some pizza. It isn’t meat lovers,” he added. “Just pepperoni and bacon.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles barely tasted the pizza. He’d have to speak to Deaton. He needed help. He needed to banish faeries. They hurt his dad, they were stalking him. Maybe with the berries and the thistle, they’d be safe long enough for him to get some answers.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles waited until Saturday. If by chance the fey did not kill him, he would need his grades to stay up, so he spent the rest of the week playing catch up and keeping an eye on John. He was at work again, paperwork only, but no faerie attacks so far. Maybe the bracelet was working. Stiles never took his necklace off and kept a pocketful of iron nails with him at all times. He just wished he knew for sure if he’d have to use them or not. 

Saturday afternoon, everyone was distracted: John was at work and Scott was with Allison. It was perfect. 

Stiles gathered the books, the plants: straw, flowers, and acorns, his iron tools, and left his homework scattered over his bed. 

Boyd and Derek had texted him, inviting him to their training session, but Stiles didn’t answer. He would be happy to tell them everything they were doing wrong just as soon as he got the stalker fey off his back. He headed to the clinic. 

The parking lot was empty when he arrived. The front door said **Open** , but there was only one light on from what Stiles could see. He got out of the jeep, hefting his backpack over his shoulder. Maybe Deaton had an emergency and had to leave without turning off the open sign. Stiles clenched his hand around the strap of his backpack. He’d just go check inside, just the front desk, and if no one was there, he’d go. He’d suck it up and ask the pack. He pulled the door open. 

Deaton sat at the front desk, head bent over some paperwork. The building was eerily quiet and dim, lit only by a light behind the desk. 

Stiles flinched, grabbing his neck, but whatever little sting he’d felt was gone already. _Mosquito bite,_ he thought. He shuffled closer to the desk. 

Deaton lifted his head slowly and smiled. 

Stiles fell back, his hand flying to his pocket. 

“Deaton” frowned. “Is something the matter?” His smile spread again. 

It was like a double image, “Deaton” wavery and strange, the creature wearing his face perfectly clear. He had jade horns growing from the sides of his head, fangs that poked from his wide smile, and a finger bone necklace. 

Stiles ran. He scrambled to the jeep, fighting with the handle, but his hands were shaking too hard to get the door open. His right hand jerked away. He yanked it open with his left and got in, slamming the door and locking it. He ripped his bag open, hefting the hammer and panting, looking around wildly. 

“Deaton” stood in the window of the clinic, smiling with his too-sharp fangs. 

Stiles grabbed for his keys. 

His right arm jerked, flinging them across the jeep. 

He stared. “No, oh no,” he hiccupped. “No, I’ve got-”

His arm still moved without his direction, reaching forward unhurried. His fingers curled around the pen in the cup holder, turning it slowly. _Rhett’s Pizza_ was emblazoned on the side. 

He grabbed for his protective necklace, but it wasn’t there. He slapped at his neck, his chest where it rested, but it was gone. There was a smear of dampness on the back of his neck. His fingers were faintly red with blood. “Fuck.” The sting he’d felt in the clinic. One of them must’ve cut it off. 

His right hand fumbled the middle console open, dragging napkins out. 

He picked the hammer up, lip caught between his teeth. Maybe if he hit it with iron, it would drive the fey’s control out. It was going to _hurt._

The pen trembled in his grasp.

Stiles lifted the hammer. 

His hand smoothed the napkins down on his thigh. The pen tore through it before it could write anything.

Stiles grabbed for his wrist automatically, hammer thumping into his lap.

His arm twisted, writhing and flexing in his grip until the pen tip touched the skin of his left arm. It pressed down hard and began moving.

Stiles tried to jerk away, but his left arm was pinned to his chest now, right forearm pressing him to the seat. He went limp.

When the right arm relaxed, he snatched the hammer. Before he could swing, the pen clattered out of his hand. His arm fell to his side, limp. His left forearm burned where the pen had dug in.

He turned it over.

‘ _We saw that_ ’ was written in jagged handwriting, leaving his skin reddened from the pressure. 

He looked up, panting, but the fake Deaton was no longer in the window. Stiles snatched his keys and left, tires squealing. He raced to a nearby gas station, gunning it through stop signs and yellow lights. “We saw that”. He parked haphazardly outside of the gas station. “Dad,” he mumbled. 

John was at the station. Could they get to him there? Why not? A werewolf hadn’t noticed them. Why would a bunch of humans?

His phone rang, making him jump. He was somehow unsurprised when he saw the hospital on the caller ID. “Yeah?” he croaked. _Please no one be dead._

“ _Stiles, your dad is here with a mild concussion,_ ” Melissa McCall said in a calm, even voice. “ _He’s okay, but we have to keep him overnight for observation tonight._ ”

“Oh my god!” Stiles lowered his forehead to his steering wheel. His ears were ringing too much for him to understand whatever she was saying. 

“ _Stiles, did you hear me?_ ” she demanded. 

“No,” he choked, wrapping his arm around his middle. 

“ _Do you want me to get Scott to come pick you up?_ ”

“No.” He gulped in air. “No, I’m coming.” He squeezed his eyes shut, took a minute to reassure her that he was okay to drive, and hung up. He swallowed and moved his hammer back to his bag. He glared at the books. He should’ve kept the necklace in his pocket. Stupid. 

How had they gotten to John? The protections had failed, or he’d done them wrong. Or the fey had gotten his off somehow. 

“Talk about cheating,” Stiles grumbled, sniffing. He headed for the hospital. There was no calming down; his dad was in the hospital with a head injury. He just had to do what came next until—until he could think. 

Melissa spotted him entering the waiting room and took him back. “He’s fine, really. He just needs rest and we want to keep an eye on him.”

He nodded without looking at her. 

“Stiles.” She touched his arm as they waited for the elevator. “I promise you, he’s fine.”

“Okay.” 

John was sitting up in bed when they got to his room. He had a bandage above his left eye and a huge bruise on his forehead. 

Stiles’s hand jumped to his own head. “What-”

“Go talk. I’ll be back, visiting time ends soon.” She squeezed his shoulder. 

Stiles stumbled into the room, stopping a few feet from John’s bed. “Dad,” he croaked. 

“Hey.” He smiled tightly. “Guess clumsiness runs in the family.” 

“What _happened?_ ” He made himself move closer, hands clenched at his sides. 

John rolled his eyes then winced, rubbing his face. “I was going out the side door to get something from the car, tripped, and cracked my head on the handrail. Hard.” He sighed. “Stupidest damn thing, there wasn’t even anything to trip over. This just isn’t my week.”

Stiles shook his head, licking his lips so he could speak. “Dad, I-I’m so sorry.” His voice was small, hoarse. 

“It was just a spill, I’m fine. Even the doc says this is just a precaution. And more stitches.” He gestured at the bandage. 

“But—I’m sorry, this is-” His gaze caught on John’s wrist. The world narrowed to the hospital band. “Where’s the bracelet?”

“Hmm? Oh, I took it off to wash my hands for lunch and misplaced it on my desk somewhere. Don’t worry,” he added, “I’ll find it later.”

“Dad…” He shook his head again. This had to _stop._ “I’m-I-”

“Stiles.” He met his gaze. “I am fine. It’s a small injury, I’m being treated.”

“I know, but-”

“No buts. It’s not your fault,” he added more gently. “So stop apologizing, okay? It was just an accident.” 

Melissa returned shortly after. “Okay, boys, John needs rest and visiting hours are just about over.” She shuffled Stiles out after he bade his father goodnight. In the hall, she caught his arm. “Do you want to stay at my house tonight?” Her worried eyes bored into his, fingers tight around his arm, just above where the pen marks were still stinging. 

“Nah,” he managed in a semi-normal voice. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You shouldn’t be alone while you’re upset.”

“No, really, I’m fine. I’ve got homework to catch up on and chores to do anyway.” He backed away, gently freeing himself from her grasp. “Thank you.”

“Sure. Just, Stiles, call Scott if you can’t be alone, okay? He’ll stay with you.”

“Uh-huh. I will,” he lied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He fled. He had the books in his car. One of them had spoken of faerie paths. He was ending this. He’d find a path on his own.


	8. Chapter 8

The book said faerie paths could be found by mortals in places of power and nature together, especially at between times. It wasn’t quite dusk as he headed into the preserve—a place of nature, at least, if not power. The book said the right spell must be performed, that with the right materials, even mortals could do it, but Stiles was really hoping if he got close enough, the faerie or faeries messing with him would reveal themselves _without_ a questionable spell.

He headed deep into the preserve, backpack heavy with the books, the bagged plants, and his hammer. He had the fire poker in hand, nails jangling in his pocket. 

The trees made it seem darker out than it really was, the shadows deep and unyielding, leaving him tumbling over branches and rocks. 

Bugs chirped. Small animals skittered around, rustling dry leaves, shaking the branches above him. 

He was alone. Too alone. He didn’t have super strength or night vision or bionic hearing. According to most of the lore, he probably wouldn’t even see a faerie if it walked right up and—and what? Did they want to kill him?

He remembered the faerie revels. The _game._ Toying with him. Nothing to toy with if he’s dead. 

He wiped his palm on his jeans and switched the poker to his other hand. The wicked, ornate curls on the end, the sharpish point, made him feel a little more secure. It wasn’t much, but it would _hurt._

He should’ve called for backup, but if he had—what would they have done to his dad? He still wished _someone_ was there, so he wasn’t quite so alone. A cold, hard ball of fear settled in the pit of his stomach.

He was deeper in the preserve than he’d ever been, surrounded by thick, unfamiliar trees and lengthening shadows. Dusk. _Faerie path,_ he thought forcefully, trying to picture a magical, invisible trail. _Show me the path._ But nothing happened. He hadn’t imagined that _thing_ pretending to be Deaton. He hadn’t. He’d seen someone with a tail at the book sale, and a girl with horns at the coffee shop. “I know you’re there,” he blurted aloud, desperate. “What are you waiting for?” He kept walking.

A blue light sputtered ahead of him. A palm sized ball of blue fire flickered, dancing in the dimness. 

Stiles approached it, fire poker held aloft.

Another appeared five feet from the first, then another, and another, lighting the woods with an eerie blue cast. 

“Is this the path?” he demanded, looking around. It didn't seem right. He kept an eye on the flames and pulled his backpack off, slowly, carefully. He needed the green book.

_To open the path, the spell will come to you, if you’ve used the right materials. Each mortal has an incantation unique to them, and it will come in the presence of the path and the ingredients. Ingredients: Straw, acorns, and chicory._

Stiles roughly dug the baggie of plants out of his bag. “Of course.” He fumbled with the poker and his bag until it slipped out of his grasp. Grumbling, he dumped the ingredients into his hand, stuffed the plastic baggie into his backpack, and put it over his shoulder. He left the poker next to his foot, within reach but leaving his hands free, just in case. “Okay,” he breathed, cupping his hands around the items. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes. 

Blue light pressed against his eyelids. The little trail of fire was blazing.

“Oh.” He leaned over and tipped the straw, acorn, and flowers into the flames closest to him. 

They hovered, suspended in the heart of the flames, burning slowly. Smoke coiled up thick and green, scented with flowers and earthy tones. 

He inhaled. Inspiration lit his mind, a little rhyme sparking to his lips. He clenched his jaw shut, abruptly realizing this was a _bad idea,_ but it came out anyway. “In the dusk where faeries dwell,” he whispered, “a rabbit hole where Alice fell. In the between, faeries unseen. To Faerie and back unharmed, the path a mortal may walk uncharmed.” A weight, like a gauzy blanket, drifted over him, brushing down his face and arms. He opened his eyes. 

The path shimmered into focus. It’d always been there, he realized, familiarity arching through him. It was just hard to see. 

“Hello,” he called. His voice was husky from the smoke. “Hello? I’m here, and I have questions!” He stepped onto the path, one foot onto well-trodden dirt, and the world turned upside down. There was a rush of noise, sound and color, flashing lights, smells thick and unrecognizable, the air heavy, and then-

He stood in murky, knee-deep water. It was thick and warm, seeping into his jeans. He twisted around, heart in his throat, but the preserve was gone, even the quaint dirt path he’d seen was gone. He turned in place, panicked. The water was deep green and brown, there were trees draped with moss and trailing algae everywhere, and it was dark. Very dark.

He spotted a mound that he hoped was dry land and waded to it, grimacing as his sneakers squished along. He pressed his hands to the mound. Rough dirt, dry, pokey grass. 

He dragged himself up, shuddering as something slid off of him. His jeans and sneakers were soaked. He patted his pockets frantically, but his keys, phone, wallet, and nails were where they were supposed to be. He swore. The fire poker was in the preserve. He scrambled for his bag, yanking the hammer out. 

A branch snapped while he was putting the bag back on.

He turned. 

A hunched, large-shouldered creature was across from him, breathing raspy and loud. It bared cracked, bloody teeth, curling its skinny, bald tail around its leg. 

Stiles stepped back, remembered the water, and stopped. Tried to recall the creatures described in the book. 

Hobs. Man-eating creatures that dwelled in darkness…and traveled in packs. Two more shadows loomed behind the first. They waited, their breathing harsh in the silence.

Stiles braced, clenching his fist on the hammer. “I’m just trying to go home,” he said slowly. “Leave me alone and I’ll get out of your way.” 

The one at the front licked its lips and growled something, a mangled word, before it rushed forward. Its tail lashed out, curling around Stiles’s ankle. 

He tripped backwards and swung the hammer blindly. 

The hob yelped.

He steadied himself without hitting the ground and struck out with the hammer again. 

Sharp teeth scraped his arm.

He jerked his elbow up, then in, and turned, smashing the hob on the head. 

It yowled, clutching the bleeding wound. 

Stiles hit it again, and again, until it collapsed. He shuddered. His hands were damp and warm, spattered with…with… He swung around at the other two, breathing hard. His arms trembled. The hammer was heavy. The hob had a hard skull. He brandished the hammer. “ _Go._ ”

The other two looked at their comrade on the ground, not healing or stirring. They looked back at the hammer in unison, eyes gleaming in the dark, and backed up. 

Stiles kept the hammer raised until they were all but invisible, and then he only lowered it a little. He stepped gingerly over the hob’s remains.

Its foot twitched.

Stiles gasped, jerking the hammer above his head. 

The hob was writhing, but only because the body was morphing slowly into a pile of sticks and ivy. 

Stiles turned away. He looked up at the trees, wiping his hand on his jeans. How the hell was he supposed to get home from _here?_ He looked at the water. He’d be better off getting away from the swamp, just in case hobs and alligators could coexist. 

There was another narrow strip of land about three feet from his little island, stretching far enough that he could guess it led _out_ of the swamp, or at least away from the water. He wiped his shoes in the grass, hoping to avoid slipping, and took a running leap. 

He hit the little strip, wobbled, and plopped ass-first into the water. “Goddamn it.” It was shallower than the water he’d arrived in, at least, but his jeans were soaked, his shirt was soaked, and he’d put his hands out to catch himself. His fingers throbbed around the hammer from clenching it so tight, but he didn’t let go. He sloshed his way out of the water. At least, he reflected, the hob’s blood had been washed off. Now he was just coated in a layer of something thin and brown. He shook his arms, disgusted. 

The air was thick and humid, stifling as he walked, and it didn’t take long for the wet denim to rub his legs raw. It stank like damp, decaying foliage and his _shoes_ —he tried not to think about his shoes. 

“I’m going to get trench foot,” he muttered. 

Something croaked to his left. 

He jumped. The path he was following was muddy but raised out of the water, no more than four feet across and surrounded by spindly, long-limbed trees growing out of the murky water. He couldn’t see far ahead, given how dark it was, but it _seemed_ like it was widening as he walked. Small miracles. 

Blue fire sparked, a trail of wisps popping into sight. They lit the area better, exposing tricky tangled roots and muddy pits almost perfectly placed to trip him up. The flames flickered playfully, like crooked fingers beckoning him closer. 

“Uh, no, _screw_ you. You’re the reason I’m here in the first place!” He turned pointedly away, following as the path curved in two directions. 

The wisps went left, so he went right, despite the lack of light. 

With a hiss like a candle doused with water, the wisps went out, plunging him back into darkness. 

His arm stung, dragging his attention from his miserable feet and legs. The spot where the hob had bitten him was warm, which he knew wasn’t a good sign. Could infection set in that quick, or was it just from blood rushing to the surface?

Could fey creatures pass along infections to mortals?

He looked around. The dark hadn’t let up at all, but the trees seemed thinner, more spread out, and his path was widening enough that he didn’t feel like he would fall into the water if he slipped again. He pulled his phone out and thumbed the screen on, then snorted. “Out of service area” indeed. Although a small part of him had been hoping to call for help, at least he could use his flashlight. He turned it on and tilted the phone to light his path. “Ah!” His shout bounced through the swamp, going higher in pitch with every echo.

The creature blinked dull blue eyes at him. It was somewhat canine shaped, almost as tall as he was, with white fur and pointed ears. Its face was long and equine, with a flat nose and long lashes.

Stiles squinted, lowering the light. “Phouka,” he muttered. The book had mentioned them, but hadn’t described them. He’d seen one before. “Where?” In the woods, the preserve. A flash of white, stomping hooves, and then gone, the memory slipping away almost before the moment was over. “What the _fuck._ ”

The phouka blinked at him. 

“What?” he asked warily. Were faerie creatures intelligent? Or speaking?

The phouka backed up a step, then turned, adopting a strange, slow gait caught somewhere between a horse’s cantor and a dog’s easy loping. It had a long, straight tail like a horse, with leaves and twigs caught in the hair.

Stiles followed at a distance, brows furrowed as he tried to force his memory clearer. It was foggy, hard to grasp, but he _knew_ it was there. He’d seen this creature before, and while he’d forgotten, he hadn’t _not seen_ it, which should’ve been impossible. Mortals couldn’t see the fey in the mortal realm unless they purposely showed themselves. 

He slowed, taking a moment to scan around him with the light. To the left looked promising. 

The phouka snorted. It was staring at him, tail swishing, ears flicking.

“I have to go home.” He stepped away. 

It snorted again and stamped its feet. 

Stiles checked his phone battery. Eighty-nine percent. He pointed it on the ground. “Fine.” He began following it again. 

It didn’t make any more noise, trotting along for long enough that Stiles wondered if it really was just wandering. He was an idiot for following it anyway. This was not a Lassie situation, this was a faerie creature. What kind of moron-

The phouka stopped and bent, nosing at the base of a tree. 

“What?” he asked wearily. “Do you need me to pick something up for you? Opposable thumbs needed?”

The phouka pawed at the dirt and stamped its back legs. 

“Fine.” He balanced his phone between the handle of the hammer and his palm so he could still see and crouched to dig where the phouka wanted him to. The dirt was warm and damp, crumbling away under his fingers easily. Something gleamed in the light, metallic under the dirt. He frowned and dug deeper, unearthing a slim silver bracelet. He shifted it in his palm. It was a simple, delicate silver chain with a tiny, stamped charm by the clasp. There was dirt packed in some of the tiny links and the engraving of the charm. He turned it over, then looked up.

The phouka was gone. No wisp of smoke, no pop of teleportation or ghostly footsteps. Just gone.

He stuffed the bracelet in his pocket. “What was the point of that?” He yanked his backpack around. Enough was enough. 

The books led him here, they could lead him home. 

He pulled the green one out, thumbing through the pages impatiently. He hesitated, then flipped faster. There was no spell, no rhyme coming to his head to take him home, and the book had changed. The information about faeries was basically gone, the illustrations faded. What was left was strange images, words in a language he didn’t recognize, and at the back, a little handwritten note:

‘ _From whence you came you may return, with a path you must earn._ ’

He dropped the book. His breath wheezed. He curled his hands over his head, barely registering the hammer thumping on top of his foot. He shuddered, huffing breaths, and bowed over his knees. Okay. He’d been in worse positions before. This… “a path you must earn”, this was just a quest. He could survive this, he could survive Faerie. After all, he ran with werewolves. How bad could faeries be?


	9. Chapter 9

Derek stomped across the living room, casting a glower at Isaac, Boyd, and Erica, who were hovering by the couch. As he threw open the door, he wondered what he’d done to be constantly plagued by teenagers when he wanted a nap.

Scott stood in the hall, dripping from the very rain that had lulled Derek into an uneasy doze in the first place. He had mud spattered up his jeans, sullen and scowling, gaze shunted off to the side while his jaw worked. 

“What?” Derek demanded. He wasn’t under any illusions that Scott would come to him unless something dire was going on. 

Scott looked up, meeting Derek’s gaze accusingly. “Stiles isn’t answering his phone.”

There was a beat. “So?” Isaac asked.

Derek tried to remember the last time he’d seen Stiles. Getting gas? Loyal, angry, exhausted. No, when he was getting dinner a few days ago, walking out with Isaac while Stiles was walking in. Also exhausted, and frustrated. Jumpy. 

“Have you checked his house?” Erica asked; she sounded bored, but Derek knew she wasn’t.

Derek felt responsible for Stiles, however grudgingly, and that reflected to the rest of the pack. Plus, however he felt, he owed Stiles. 

“He isn’t home,” Scott snapped. “I checked.”

“We’ll need to search his room, see if there’s any clue about where he went,” Derek said. If he went willingly. 

“His jeep isn’t there.”

“Erica and I can look for the jeep,” Boyd offered, coming up behind Derek. “While you guys check his room.”

Derek nodded. “Call Jackson. If Stiles is actually missing, we’ll need the whole pack searching.” 

Boyd nodded curtly and grabbed his shoes.

Derek and Isaac went with Scott to the Stilinski house, while Boyd and Erica went toward the school, starting from the last place they’d seen Stiles. 

“Sheriff is home,” Scott muttered, stuffing his key back in his pocket. “We’ll have to sneak in.”

“We’re werewolves,” Isaac whispered. “I think we can manage.” They were all damp from the rain, standing in an unsubtle group under the tree nearest the Stilinski house, facing the street. 

Derek rolled his eyes and left them to climb the side of the house. The window, just like last time, was unlatched. Did he just _never_ lock his window or had he decided that anything truly dangerous wouldn’t be stopped by a simple lock? 

Scott stood by the window, arms stiff at his sides, while Derek and Isaac fanned out to search the room. 

Isaac muttered, “Man, how many Star Wars figurines does a guy need?” as he wandered by Stiles’s bookshelf. 

“It only smells like Stiles in here,” Scott hissed. “There’s nothing here, we should be searching the preserve-”

Derek tuned him out. He wasn’t sure Scott was right about the scents; yes, it was Stiles’s scent in the room, but _nothing else._ It was unnatural. He should’ve picked up other scents throughout his week, mixed up the scents, cluttered them up. Last time Derek was here, Stiles had been glaring at him with glazed-over eyes, holding a nail like a switchblade, on his knees in bed. It had smelled like Stiles, yes, his exhaustion, his frustration, but there’d been traces of Scott, Sheriff Stilinski, even Erica and Boyd just from his school clothes. Derek turned slowly, looking for anything out of place. 

Half full laundry basket. Textbooks, binders, and pens scattered over the unmade bed. Desk cluttered with pens, highlighters, and index cards. He frowned at the cork board above the desk, the index cards spilling onto the surrounding wall. He only had to read two before his stomach sank. “Fuck.”

Isaac whipped around, but Derek couldn’t tear his gaze from the wall.

This was bad.

“What?” Scott demanded. 

Derek didn’t look away from the notes meticulously organized by color, each with a title, filled with faerie lore. “Stiles might have been abducted by faeries.”

Isaac snorted. “What?”

Scott croaked, “What?”

Derek looked at him. “This.” He gestured at the cards. “He was researching faeries and why else would he do that unless they were a threat?”

“Because he was curious?” Scott suggested. 

“Curious people don’t make columns for getting help,” Isaac observed. He moved closer to study the cards. 

“But abducted? Why?”

Derek shook his head. “If he caught the attention of fey, it could be anything.”

“He seemed to think they want people with special talents,” Isaac said. “Maybe they need someone who can talk people to death.” 

Derek’s phone rang. “Look, just try to see if he knew where they might take him. _Hello?_ ” he snapped. 

“ _We found the jeep in the preserve,_ ” Boyd reported. “ _Erica’s still looking but we followed his trail and it just vanishes._ ” 

“Alright.” Derek shook his head. Damn it, Stiles. “Wait where it ends, we’ll find you.”

“ _Okay. Jackson didn’t answer,_ ” he added. “ _Do we really need him?_ ”

“Yes,” he replied grimly. “Just wait and keep an eye out, I’ll call him.”

“ _Okay._ ”

“There’s nothing here,” Scott burst out as soon as he hung up.

“Shh!” Derek listened, but aside from a stutter in his snoring, Sheriff Stilinski didn’t seem to notice. 

“Why hasn’t the sheriff noticed Stiles is gone?” Isaac asked. 

Derek turned, neck prickling with unease. “Fey magic,” he muttered. “They’re good at making people forget.” 

“So why not us?”

“Werewolves?” Isaac guessed. 

Derek nodded. “They tend to avoid interfering with us, and we steer clear of them.” 

“So why Stiles?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” But Stiles had been bothered by something lately, acting stranger, and clearly had figured out there were fey around. Had he figured out their motive? Derek’s gaze fell to the “ **Why** ” column. Apparently not. Lots of yellow highlights and question marks. “We’re going to meet Boyd and Erica in the preserve so we can try to figure that out.” He looked at the wall again. 

Isaac shrugged. “We’ll just get him back.”

“From _where?_ ” Scott wailed. 

“Shut _up,_ Scott,” Derek growled. “You’re going to wake him up.” He rubbed his face. “Let’s go to the preserve and we’ll figure out what to do from there.” He texted Jackson while Scott and Isaac clambered out the window like the world’s most inexperienced burglars, rolling his eyes. He turned to Stiles’s faerie board, studying the columns more closely.

_Faerie paths_ was written in the “ **How** ” column.

“Fuck.” He followed Scott and Isaac a minute later, closing the window carefully behind him. The two were in the backyard already, taking cover from the rain under a tree, standing with a third figure. “Why is she here?” Derek growled. 

“She can help,” Scott snapped. 

He glared at him, but there wasn’t time to argue. “Fine. She’s your responsibility.” 

“ _No one_ is responsible for me,” Allison Argent snapped. 

“Yeah, well, if I end up with a knife or arrow in my throat, I’ll be sure to blame both of you equally.” He walked away. If Scott wanted to bring his hunter girlfriend while they searched for _his_ missing best friend, well, fine. Not Derek’s problem. 

Isaac kept up with him. “Should she be coming with?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate. 

Boyd and Erica were waiting, looking grim. “His path just ends here,” Boyd said, “but a little further ahead, we found something.”

Erica beckoned him. “We didn’t want to pick it up. It does smell like him.” She brushed her damp hair back and pointed at something half buried under wet leaves. 

Derek frowned at the fire poker, dropped haphazardly. “Does Stiles have a fireplace?”

“No.” Scott and Allison stood across from Boyd and Erica, eyeing each other warily, while Isaac hovered between the two groups. 

Derek picked it up, hefting it in his hands. Iron. He clenched his fist around it. He’d asked Stiles what he was getting from the hardware store, and he’d said iron. He’d been gathering weapons. 

“What’s going on?” Erica demanded. “Where’s Stiles?”

Derek rubbed rain out of his eyes. “He’s in the faerie realm, I think. He was researching faeries, including how to hurt them.” He rolled the poker in his palm. “I just don’t get why he didn’t tell anyone.”

Erica glanced at Scott, then Isaac. She _and_ Scott looked guilty. “Maybe he didn’t believe they were real?” she suggested in an uncharacteristically meek tone. 

“He should’ve asked,” Derek said curtly. “Instead of investigating on his own.” 

“Why would he ask _you?_ ”

All three of the other betas looked away; Allison watched, coolly aloof. 

Derek’s gaze hardened. He wanted to say _because you’re the werewolf but he acts like pack,_ and also, _because he’s smart and should’ve known to ask us._ Instead, he said, “Who else should he ask? You?”

Scott flushed, trying to glare at Derek but mostly failing. He stank of guilt. He knew something. He just didn’t want to admit it.

Boyd stepped between them. “So how do we _find_ him?”

“We have to find a way into Faerie.” Derek sighed. “If Stiles found a way in, we can.”

“Didn’t you say he was abducted?”

He looked at Scott and shook his head. “I thought he was, but now.” He lifted the poker. “I’m pretty sure he was led there instead. He went on his own. Maybe not on purpose, faeries can compel humans to do things.”

Scott grimaced, likely remembering Peter’s attempts at controlling him. 

“Allison, Scott, you handle Sheriff Stilinski. I’m not sure how long he can go without realizing Stiles is gone and we might need him.” 

Allison shook her head when it looked like Scott wanted to argue. 

“I’ll go talk to-” his mouth twisted involuntarily- “Dr. Deaton to see if he knows of a way to find him.”

“Why would they want Stiles?”

“No clue.” Derek shook his head. “Not important. We need to get moving.”

“You don’t think _why_ faeries abducted Stiles is _important?_ ” Scott demanded. 

Derek whirled on him. “Not as much as finding him before he gets trapped forever by faerie charms,” he snarled. 

“Oh.”

“Go. Now.” He took a breath. “Boyd, set up shifts between you, Erica, Jackson, and Isaac, and don’t leave this spot. It could be a path and we might need to use it to get to Stiles.”

Boyd nodded. 

“Jackson is either on his way or ignoring me, which means I’m going to kick his ass on the way to Deaton’s.”

“Stiles said you should stop beating us up.” Erica’s teeth flashed in the dark. 

“During training. Scott, Allison, go. Shifts,” he added, pointing at Boyd. “Don’t leave it unattended.” He left to find Deaton. He doubted he would have any advice or solutions, but maybe he would have literature or a spell or something. Answers to any of their millions of questions.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles knew he’d left the swamp behind when he took a deep breath of clear, dry air. The humidity dissipated, leaving it fresher, lighter. Less like a physical weight. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, until he realized it was just getting lighter around him. He could see where he was going, the bark on the trees, and the tangled clumps of thorns on the ground. He wiped sweat from his face and craned his neck. He couldn’t see the sun, but the leaves on the trees were glowing faintly; everything seemed over-bright under them. 

The grass wasn’t just _green,_ it was gleaming emerald; the dirt wasn’t _just_ brown, it was burnt sienna, chestnut, sorrel. Like Stiles was in a different world where everything was similar to his, trees worked the same way, the sky was still above him and the ground beneath, but it was also different in ways he could barely describe. 

He shuddered. 

A long, drawn out croak had him gripping his hammer tighter. He needed to keep moving if he wanted to find a way home. He’d also settle for a way back to the mortal realm. He could find a way back to Beacon Hills once he was in his own world again. He rubbed his forehead. 

He’d read about fey favors, charms, tricks and treasures, and he _still_ had no idea how he was getting out of here. Not without signing away his soul or something to a faerie. 

Movement caught his eye. Thirty feet ahead, a tall, slim figure walked across the path, plucked at a tree, and turned sharply away. 

A _person._ Stiles hurried closer, hope ballooning in his chest. He could ask for directions, he could see if they knew the way back out—he slowed about ten feet away, realizing, as he got within sight, that the person was not…quite…human. 

They were tall and willowy, with long maroon hair and gold skin—not a golden skin tone, but real gold, gold that gleamed like metal in the light of the trees, smooth with a pattern like feathers on their arms. They were dressed in ornate shorts and a shirt that gleamed with beetle wing designs. Blood red boots with curved, sharp designs on the outside turned toward him.

Stiles backed up.

The faerie looked at him with glowing brown eyes that went wide with surprise. A wicked grin stretched their mouth. “And how did you get here?” They observed for a second. “You’re lost.” Fangs gleamed against their bottom lip.

“I followed a path,” Stiles answered warily. “I just want to go home.” 

They laughed. “Well, you can’t go out the entrance. It’s not a two way door.”

Stiles stared. 

The faerie sighed, then smiled, eyes gleaming, and said, “Can I have your name?” in a purring voice. 

Stiles said, flatly, “Can I have yours?”

They frowned a little, then smiled again, eyes hazing with gold. 

Stiles’s vision wavered, then settled, unchanged. 

The fey was visibly surprised and annoyed for a moment, before intrigue took over their face. “Fine,” they huffed. “What may I call you then?”

“Stiles. And _you?_ ” he pressed. 

“Kisallis. Who put the geas on you?” they grumbled. 

Stiles didn’t know what a geas was. “I’m just trying to go home. I don’t want to be here.” 

Kisallis grinned. “Little lost mortal, equipped with a geas and the Sight. Someone’s been bedding a faerie, but which Court?” 

Stiles flushed but didn’t speak. It wasn’t worth telling this random faerie that he hadn’t been bedding _anyone,_ let alone a faerie, not to mention the fact that they were basically speaking gibberish to him. He had a feeling that knowledge was a currency here, and he was going to keep his lack-of to himself. 

Kisallis beamed. “Oh, please, tell me it was Fauriei, you’re just his type.”

“I don’t know who that is.” Stiles stepped around them. 

They hissed, jumping back from the hammer. Then they whipped their arm forward. 

Stiles shouted, “Hey!” and tried to scramble out of reach.

Too late; Kisallis plunged a hand into Stiles’s backpack and yanked out the green book. A grin curled their mouth. “Where’d you get this?”

Stiles snatched it back, poking the hammer at them to keep them from taking it away again. “I found it.” He tucked the book away, keeping one eye on Kisallis.

They looked curious, tugging at long maroon tresses. “I see.” Their gaze roamed around. “There are a lot of scary things in the woods for a mortal. I could guide you.”

Stiles tried to follow their gaze, but all he saw was trees. He was pretty sure that would count as a favor, but he was also not supposed to offend faeries when refusing their favors. He licked his lips. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful guide,” he said slowly, “but I prefer solitude.”

Kisallis rolled their eyes. “The ability to lie is wasted on mortals.” They smiled widely. “I think I’ll walk with you. I’ve nothing else to do.” 

Stiles gritted his teeth, then eyed his hammer speculatively. He could try to beat them away like he’d done with the hob. But Kisallis was undeniably a person, different from the hobs, and more powerful. They’d already tried to charm Stiles into answering their questions. The hobs hadn’t done that. Kisallis wasn’t a fey creature, but a true _faerie_ , with glamouring abilities and ways he couldn’t begin to understand. He couldn’t just physically beat them away without risking something terrible happening in return. And, even though he was afraid for his own life, he wasn’t sure he could do that to a person who wasn’t actively trying to kill him. 

He would just ignore them, he decided, and keep walking. With any luck, Kisallis would get bored and wander off. He started walking. He needed to get home before he ran into something more dangerous or ended up accepting a favor and binding himself here. He should’ve asked the pack for help. His shoulders slumped. He could’ve explained that he was worried about his dad being hurt—but he’d also been…He just couldn’t _stand_ the idea of them thinking he couldn’t keep up or handle being around a pack— _his_ pack, damn it, they _were_ his, no matter what Derek or Scott thought. He’d saved all of their asses enough to earn partial membership at least. He’d _earned_ his place. Even if that didn’t technically make him pack, it made him…something. He hoped. 

He scrubbed at his eyes. He needed to pay attention to where he was going. 

The trees opened up to the left, while straight on remained dark and closed. 

He veered left. 

“Are you sure you want to go that way?” Kisallis asked in a sing song. 

No, he wasn’t sure, but he was going anyway. He needed to get out of the woods, needed to go home, and he needed to ditch this stupid faerie. He couldn’t ask them any questions, either, in case asking resulted in a favor owed. He didn’t understand the rules, the limitations or parameters, and he didn’t want to wind up stuck. He swallowed and wondered if anyone had noticed he was gone yet. If his dad was okay. If Scott was looking for him.


	11. Chapter 11

Kisallis wouldn’t stop singing. Stiles was seriously reconsidering his decision not to beat them with the hammer. Their voice wasn’t bad, exactly, but high pitched and sharp in a way that made concentrating on _anything_ else impossible. Stiles refused to plug his ears on principle, because then they would win. Plus, he needed to keep his hammer ready, so he’d only be able to plug one ear. One was not enough.

Kisallis sucked in a breath.

Stiles winced involuntarily. 

They smirked, and Stiles lost. Damn it. “My friend Strewix tried to seduce a fetch once,” they said. “She insisted that nothing could resist her, and thus, even a fetch would fall for her.”

Stiles had no idea why they were talking to him at all; they’d spent at least an hour in relative silence before the singing. Stiles had hoped more silence would follow.

They glanced at him slyly, eyes gleaming. “Do you know what a fetch is, mortal?”

“No.” He was sure he’d read about them, but he’d read about so many creatures, they all ran together until he was faced with one of them. 

“Do you want me to tell you?” they asked in a silky tone of voice. 

Stiles stiffened. “You may tell me what you wish, if you wish it.”

Kisallis looked disappointed, then sighed. “Oh, fine. Fetches are creatures of fear. They know only hunger—for magic and fear. So you see, my friend Strewix is an idiot.”

Stiles snorted before he could stop himself, and Kisallis looked pleased. He was sure he’d gotten himself in some kind of trouble—did laughing at faeries put you in their debt?—but Kisallis was already talking about Strewix’s attempts at seduction again, their voice carrying loudly through the woods. It was still better than the singing, so Stiles opted to ignore the chatter as much as he could. 

Daylight came eventually. It wasn’t gradual, but a sudden shift from night to gray day that left Stiles blinking spots out of his eyes. 

Kisallis didn’t seem to have noticed. 

Stiles wondered how long it’d been, if it was daytime already. He didn’t feel like he’d been walking all night—but that could’ve been adrenaline. It probably _was_ adrenaline, and the shock of being here. He’d probably crash soon.

“-and she _still_ didn’t give up you know-” Kisallis rambled. 

Stiles cut them a glance, annoyed. In that brief moment, a gust of chilled air roved over them, tugging Kisallis’s hair back and sending goosebumps down Stiles’s arms. 

A creature stood before them, crawling its way out of a tree. It was taller than him, with an almost humanoid shape and bright white eyes. 

Stiles slowed to a stop, captivated by the eyes. He’d seen them before.

“Oh, I didn’t mention,” Kisallis said. “Speaking of them may summon them.”

Them…fetches. They had summoned a fetch. No wonder they’d been telling their story for so long. Stiles wanted to get angry, but he couldn’t look away from the fetch’s eyes, the glowing white, caught in its stare. 

A skeletal hand lifted toward him, fingers partially curled. 

Stiles’s heart tripped. His throat was bone dry, a desert, and there was nothing else in the world except those eyes. His father was going to die while Stiles was here, instead of with him, helping him.

“Mortal, it will kill you,” Kisallis said, sounding bored and far away. “Are you going to do anything?”

Stiles would be alone. No Dad, no Mom. Scott had Allison. The pack had each other. 

Kisallis sighed. 

The long, pale fingers crooked, not quite a fist.

He’d bring fey back with him. Then people would get hurt because of him. People he loved. He’d already gotten his father hurt. Who next? School friends? Ms. McCall? Human people who didn’t have super healing abilities? He was better off staying right where he was. 

The fetch opened its hand, reaching out again. The air grew colder, harder to breathe. 

“Mortal,” Kisallis repeated, still bored. 

Bony fingers brushed Stiles’s chin.

He reared back and swung his hammer. It cracked against the fetch’s arm, drawing an unearthly shriek from it.

It yowled, hand cradled to its chest, and lunged. Its teeth grew to needle points, gray and gleaming in the sunlight. 

Stiles swung again. The hammer smashed against its face. 

Bone crackled. One bright white eye winked out, crushed. 

The fetch howled and grabbed Stiles’s throat.

He slammed the hammer down on its injured arm. The thin bones shattered on impact. He brought the hammer up, panting, and smashed it against its head. 

The fetch crumbled. It backed away, spattering the dirt with heavy teal droplets that left grass in its wake. It dragged its long, broken body into the shadows, glaring with its one good eye. 

Stiles’s throat throbbed. 

“You should kill it,” Kisallis said silkily in his ear, so close he could feel their breath. “Or it’ll come back to you.”

“No.” Stiles made himself start moving. He was shaking all over, so cold his bones ached, and his hand was slick with teal blood. 

Kisallis huffed and caught up to him. “It _will_ come back to you, you know. Even with iron wounds.” Their mouth twisted with distaste, gaze dropping to Stiles’s hammer. 

“Listen, Kiss Ass, leave me alone,” he snapped. He was too shaken to worry about offending them, and he was getting tired of their voice. 

A beat of heavy silence, then, “ _What_ did you just call me?”

“Oh, did you prefer Kiss-All-Asses?” he asked sweetly. 

“That is not my name,” they growled. 

“Whatever you say, Kiss Ass.”

“Apologize, and grovel,” they ordered. 

“I will not. But good try, Kiss Ass.”

They snarled. 

Stiles couldn’t even feel properly smug. His sneakers felt sticky, gathering mud and grass on the bottoms with every step. “Quit,” he snapped when Kisallis crowded against his side. 

“The trail goes that way.”

Stiles examined their path. A trail did, in fact, go left, where they wanted to go. Stiles was going straight. “The trail I’m following goes this way.”

Kisallis tried to herd him as they walked, but Stiles shook his hammer at them like an inexperienced priest warding off a vampire and they stopped. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. Did they really think he wanted to follow them deeper into the woods? No. One disastrously bad decision at a time, and he was still dealing with the latest one. 

The trees became fewer and further between as they walked; Kisallis began dragging their feet, but the lack of gloom had Stiles’s pace picking up, more confident now that he could see properly. Grass sprouted in patches that became more frequent as he walked, sprinkles of flowers both familiar and strange cropping up.

Kisallis muttered something. 

Stiles looked up from a blue and white dandelion. 

A large house stood in the distance, with tall, sweeping spikes for a roof and a riot of flowers in the front yard. The windows were a rainbow of colors and the door was pitch black, glittering like a gem in the sun. 

Stiles glanced sideways at Kisallis, who looked annoyed. They were clearly trying to keep him from finding this place, but why?

“Don’t go in there,” they said, crossing their arms. “The creature that lives there is more fearsome than you could possibly imagine.”

Stiles eyed them, then the house. What kind of fey monster could live in a house like this, all white and gray stone and tall pillars? It was three stories at least. What did a monster need with three floors, pillars, and a garden? 

Kisallis stopped a few feet from the garden, arms still crossed. 

Stiles glanced back, surprised. They were scared enough to leave him be? Maybe he should be worried. 

The glittering front door swung open. 

Kisallis flinched. 

“You are still banned!” the man in the door shouted. “Or have you forgotten?”

Kisallis grumbled, gaze sliding to Stiles. When he didn’t move, they sighed and slunk away, back into the trees. 

Stiles gaped, then looked up at the man on the porch.

He was wearing a soft pink—almost white—sweater and iridescent blue pants, brows furrowed as he watched Kisallis go. He had curly black hair held back by what _looked_ like measuring tape. 

“Th-” Stiles began, snipping the syllable off before he could screw up.

The man looked at him, face softening. “Yes, it’s a hard habit to break.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you come in and tell me where Kisallis took you from?”

Stiles moved closer reluctantly, eyes roving over the man’s head, his face and arms. His brows went up. 

The man looked incredibly human. He crossed his arms as Stiles got closer and smiled, revealing perfectly human teeth. No fangs. “I’m mortal,” he said, as if he’d seen the thought on Stiles’s face. “Like you, sort of. Come inside. You must be starving.” He stepped back from the door, holding it open with a socked foot. 

Stiles looked back toward the woods, then up at the house, the doorway which was inscribed with symbols and had a rusty pair of very old scissors hanging over it. He went in. 

The man was called Marwin, and he’d been twenty-seven when he came to Faerie. He told Stiles this while serving him gamey white meat sort of like chicken and sliced fruit. He must’ve noticed Stiles’s expression, because he said he’d chosen to stay. He sat across from Stiles. “So how did you get here?”

Stiles picked at the meat. He was hungry enough to eat almost anything, but he was worried about getting stuck here. If Marwin was mortal, he could lie. “I was getting stalked by some…fey,” he hedged. “They left me books, acorns, flowers. And they hurt—hurt my dad when I tried to ask for help. So I got mad and tried to confront them by opening a path.”

Marwin’s eyes went half-lidded. “Ah,” he said softly. 

“And obviously to everyone _but_ me, apparently, you can’t go back the way you came.” Stiles glanced at him, hoping to be told that was wrong.

“Yes,” Marwin sighed, “that’s true. A stupid stipulation, but a lot of things here are.”

Stiles dropped his hands. “So how do I get home? I can’t stay here, I can’t-”

Marwin held up a hand. “There are other paths. It’s just finding one that’s a problem.” He sighed. “Some lead back to the mortal world, others just lead to a different Court.”

“Aren’t there only two?”

Marwin smiled. “There used to be. Now there’s so many, I don’t think I could name them all. You’re in the outskirts of the Court of Flames right now,” he added. He rubbed his eyes. “Don’t trust Kisallis. They won’t kill you, probably, but they like adventure and usually get other people in trouble for the fun of it.”

Stiles stuffed food in his mouth, forgetting to worry about getting trapped. He glowered at the table as he thought of the fetch. For the fun of it. He swallowed. “You’re mortal?”

He looked surprised. “Yes…?”

“But you _live_ here?”

His face cleared with a little smile. He swept crumbs into a little pile on the table. “I fell in love many years ago with a faerie.” He sighed. “He loved me back for a time but grew bored as they do, and moved on. He’d already whisked me away from my realm and, eventually, my time, so I was here.” He plucked at his shirt. “He left me this, our home, and riches, materials, as a parting gift.” 

Stiles stared at his plate, appetite chased away. 

“I make clothes,” Marwin continued. “It’s what drew his attention in the first place, the fact that I could spin any material into finery.” He shook his head. “My home is protected. You can rest here, if you’d like. You must be exhausted. I can get you some clothes while you finish eating.” He swept away from the table before Stiles could thank him.

By the time he’d returned, Stiles had finished his food. He was carrying a pile of green material that looked soft and light, and a small, black-bladed knife. 

“I’m grateful,” Stiles said awkwardly, trying not to say “thank you”.

Marwin smiled like he could tell. “Here, I’ll just clean this up.” The kitchen was open to the dining room, so as he took the plate, Stiles turned in his seat to watch. He put the dishes into a basin filled with soapy water. 

“How can I pay you back?” Stiles asked impulsively. “I don’t have anything of value.” Not here, anyway, unless faeries had started using USD for some reason.

Marwin hummed as he rinsed the plate. “Tell me stories.”

“Stories?”

He nodded. “I’ve not been to the mortal realm in a very long time. Long enough that there have been plenty of drastic changes, I’m sure. So tell me some stories and we’ll consider your debt paid.”

Stiles nodded slowly, reminding himself that Marwin wasn’t a faerie, and sifted through his memories for something entertaining. “Okay.” He licked his lips and managed a grin. “My friend and I met when we were six, and we had to do _everything_ together,” he began. 

Marwin settled back for the tale, smiling. 

Stiles told him about his and Scott’s elementary school shenanigans, never using Scott’s name, until he was yawning too hard to speak.

Marwin showed him to a guest room on the first floor, through a hallway painted magenta. 

Stiles washed off in the basin of warm water, changed, and collapsed on the enormous, rose-scented bed in the center of the room without really seeing the rest of it. He had no idea if it was day or night, if the door was locked, or if the clothes were actually made of butterfly wings, like they felt. He slept deeply.


	12. Chapter 12

Derek dropped his hands to his sides. If he left them up, he was going to punch through the glass and let himself into the clinic, then wait until Deaton eventually showed up. He couldn’t seem to pin him down anywhere. He’d been two steps behind him for days, no matter what he did to track the guy down. He scratched his face and swung away from the clinic. Deaton hadn’t been there in days anyway. 

“We can try his house again,” Scott suggested. His face was downturned, thumbs moving over his phone. Texting Allison, who was across town trying to track Deaton down, too.

Derek shook his head. The parking lot stank of overheated asphalt and old, baking paint, dying grass from the yard and all the animals that used the yard to relieve themselves before visiting the vet. No people smells, not even Deaton; the asphalt was repugnant enough to mask it, he supposed. 

“We need his help, right?” Scott asked tersely. 

“We’ll have to follow the steps Stiles took. Look around,” Derek snapped when Scott tried to argue. “We can’t find Deaton, and the longer we spend looking for him, the longer Stiles is alone in Faerie.”

“Fine,” Scott muttered. 

Derek held his tongue to keep from saying anything abrasive. It was easier to deal with Jackson, who complained but _basically_ listened to him. “We’ll need to get back into Stiles’s room.”

“Okay, but Sheriff Stilinski has been locking his window, so we’re gonna have to use the front door.” Scott looked cheery as he turned away. 

Why couldn’t the fey have taken _him?_

Sheriff Stilinski gave them a long, long look when they knocked on his front door. He was haggard, with a yellowing bruise and stitches on his forehead, still dressed in his rumpled uniform, heavy bags under his eyes. “You have a key, Scott,” he said at last. 

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t want to startle you.” Scott grinned earnestly. 

Sheriff Stilinski stepped aside to let him in, then put a hand out to keep Derek from entering. “Scott said you’re looking for him.”

“Yes.”

His gaze roved over Derek’s face, searching for something he likely wasn’t going to find. 

Derek inhaled, struck by the sudden, unexpected desire to reassure him, to promise they would find Stiles and bring him home, that he would be fine. He bit it back, furious at himself. He couldn’t guarantee _any_ of those things. 

“Okay.” He stepped aside. 

Derek nodded at him and retreated as subtly as he could to Stiles’s room.

Scott scowled at him. “You couldn’t have told him it’d be okay and that we’re going to find him?”

Derek shoved past him into Stiles’s room. “I don’t want to get his hopes up in case we fail.” He stood in the center of the room. It was chilled from the closed door and air conditioning and it smelled, still, only of Stiles. Definitely a trick or spell of some kind. He studied Stiles’s notes and shook his head. He hadn’t been paying enough attention. He’d known something was bothering Stiles, but he’d let it go—teenage angst wasn’t _his_ problem, even if he was the alpha—over and over again, but looking at the notes…

“ **Acorns** ”—an incident right outside of Derek’s old home, yards from where he and the pack stood. Stiles had seen faeries in the preserve, been given tokens from them. They’d even cleaned his house—Derek suspected brownies, the least dangerous but also most easily offended of the fey. They’d stalked him at home, at school, made him fearful and frustrated, and Derek hadn’t noticed. “ **Copper Moon Café: first book** ” was next, highlighted in blue. 

“What book?” he muttered. 

“What?”

He shook his head. “Stay here with Sheriff Stilinski, he’s—he needs someone here.”

“Where are _you_ going?”

Derek was getting tired of every sentence out of Scott’s mouth sounding like an accusation. “I’m following his footsteps.” 

“What does that mean?”

Derek tried to picture the exact look of fury on Stiles’s face when he’d dared ask why he was doing Scott a favor, even though he was clearly exhausted. It helped. A little. “It means I’m going to go everywhere Stiles had an encounter with a faerie and see if I can track one down.”

Scott nodded. “Okay, but don’t go alone. What if you disappear too?”

Derek had never had a reason to believe his disappearing would be a problem for Scott, but he kept that to himself. “I’ll take Jackson,” he said. “Ask-” he stopped. Reconsidered. “Could you ask Allison to watch the spot where Stiles disappeared? Boyd will be there alone.”

Scott looked surprised. “Yeah, I’ll ask her. Good luck.” 

Derek sent Erica and Isaac to the school again, this time to search for anyone who shouldn’t be there. Jackson met Derek a block away from the café. 

“Why are we walking? There’s a parking lot.”

“So if anything happens, our cars aren’t at the scene of the crime.” He rolled his eyes. He’d thought Jackson would appreciate keeping his car out of firing range. He hadn’t had to clean blood off or out of it yet, that was obviously why. They only ever seemed to learn the hard way.

The parking lot was empty as they crossed it, clean, with fresh painted white lines and smooth asphalt. The café was lit up but empty inside as well. It was cold to the point of discomfort, even after the relentless heat from outside. 

Derek scanned over the place. It smelled like brewed coffee and sugar, but nothing else. 

The cashier leaned against the counter, watching them, bored. She looked bland to him, so utterly forgettable that Derek’s eyes passed over her twice before he realized she was there and Jackson didn’t seem to notice at all. 

Derek’s pulse quickened. He wandered to the counter, leaving Jackson at the door with a sharp look.

The cashier vaulted the register and ran for the door. 

“Jackson-!” Derek turned, snarling.

Jackson threw his arm out, clotheslining her before she made it out the door. He looked up at Derek, mouth hanging open.

Derek lunged, planting his boot on the center of her chest. “Where is he?”

She smiled widely, her bland features melting into something harsher, beautiful but otherworldly. She had pupils split horizontally and short horns growing from her forehead. “Oh, how ’bout a race, wolfie?” She had a high pitched chirp of a voice with an accent he couldn’t place. “Whoever gets to him first gets to keep him.” She met his gaze directly. 

Fire flashed in his face, an explosion of light and heat. Smoke and ash stung his nose. He recoiled from the heat, choking with ash on his tongue, and then it was gone.

So was the faerie. 

He shuddered, furious at himself for falling for a faerie illusion. He wondered if they were doing that to Stiles. But perhaps not. She sounded like she didn’t have him either. 

“Why do they want to keep Stilinski?” Jackson demanded. He was glaring at the floor. 

“No idea.” But he was worried. They _could_ keep mortals, they _had_ kept mortals. They normally left humans in wolf packs alone, though, because the hassle of having made enemies with a werewolf pack was rarely worth it. An unspoken rule, now apparently broken. What was going on? He glowered. He hated faeries. They were tricky and sneaky and too powerful. “Come on, we’re not going to find anything here,” he muttered. Not now that he’d let the faerie escape. “We need to go look elsewhere.”

Jackson rolled his eyes and followed Derek out.

As expected, the faerie hadn’t left any discernible trail, and Erica reported that she and Isaac hadn’t found anything at the school. Derek wanted to insist they keep looking, but with no idea what they were looking for, he couldn’t justify it even to himself. 

What books had Stiles spoken of? Why were they significant? And where were they? He shook his head. Stiles had obviously taken them with him and probably used them to get to Faerie. 

He sent the betas home. There was no point in them being out all night, probably getting grounded and hindering their search efforts. He kept vigil by the place where Stiles’s scent disappeared—marked now by trampled ground and the scent of the pack, as his scent had long faded—holding the fire poker in his lap. He rolled his fingers over it. Hoped it wasn’t Stiles’s only weapon. Surely he’d armed himself with more than just a fire poker and the handful of nails Derek had seen on his nightstand. At least he’d found a way to fight—of course he had. But why had he dropped this? 

Derek sighed. He should’ve confronted Stiles when he noticed him acting strange. That was a good way to get boxed out and possibly punched in the nose, of course. Stiles was stubborn, but he and Stiles had been communicating better lately, or starting to, now that most immediate threats had backed off. Well, they were communicating. Stiles hadn’t shoved mistletoe up his nose when he’d gone to his house, which was honestly progress. 

His mouth quirked. 

If Stiles had been armed back when they first met, he was sure he’d have done it then. 

He rolled the poker across his lap. _Why_ hadn’t Stiles asked, or even told them about the faeries? They could’ve helped, could’ve learned together. 

That reminded Derek of Scott, acting shifty and guilty when they first realized where Stiles had gone. Erica had been guilty, too, but to a lesser extent. He needed to find out what Scott knew. If he was hiding something that would help, Derek was going to kick his ass, forget trying to get him to join the pack. He was sure Stiles would get over it if he rescued him from Faerie. 

Derek leaned back on his palms, listening to the night critters wake, chittering and skittering around the woods. They gave him a wide berth but didn’t stop their nightly rituals on his account. He’d stayed plenty of nights in the preserve. The noise was familiar, soothing, childhood and loss mixed together. The air was thick and sultry around him, buzzing with opportunistic mosquitos that he was too lazy to swat away. 

Derek stayed all night, thoughtful, watching, in a dazed state of awareness. He’d had enough sleepless nights that this one extra was nothing. He inhaled slowly as dawn began to break, flexing his stiffened muscles. He would find Deaton today. He’d talk to Scott. They were going to find Stiles before he got trapped. 

Once the sun was acceptably high in the sky, Derek called Jackson, endured his noisy complaints, and ordered him to watch the path. He stabbed the poker into the soft dirt where he’d been sitting as a marker—out of all of his betas, he knew Jackson had the least practice scent tracking—and left. He needed to talk to Scott, so he went to the Stilinski house once again.

The cruiser was still outside and Derek couldn’t help wondering if the sheriff was ever going back to work, which wasn’t fair. He was worried about his son. But he made Derek uncomfortable, and he needed to focus on finding Stiles. He hesitated at the end of the driveway. Scott was inside, but he’d have to leave eventually. Derek could wait. Or he could go in and tell Sheriff Stilinski what he was doing to find Stiles. It might give him peace of mind.

Derek stepped into the yard, then froze. Tensed. Whipped around.

Allison lifted her knife warily, dropping a hand to her quiver. 

He eased back. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me what I can do.”

_Nothing. Your family has done enough._ He flexed his jaw, then nodded at her quiver. “You’ll need iron tips if you’re going to hunt faeries.”

She glanced at them incredulously, as if the idea that her regular arrow heads weren’t enough to kill everything. “Okay.”

Derek’s brows lifted. “I still can’t find Dr. Deaton and I need to talk to Scott.” 

She lifted her brows back. “He’s talking to Sheriff Stilinski. And I’ll keep an eye out for Deaton.”

Derek nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he muttered grudgingly. 

“We can’t lose Stiles.” She turned away. 

Derek went up to Stiles’s room. Scott would know he’s there, so there was no need to make his presence known. He was annoyed to find the window unlocked _again_ , but it worked in his favor, so how could he complain? He wandered the room while he waited; stillness came to him easily normally, but it seemed impossible not to move right now. Staying still meant inaction, and inaction was unacceptable. He looked down at a gleam in the carpet beside the bed and grabbed it. 

A long iron nail rolled in his palm. 

He tucked it in his pocket, sighing, and turned to Stiles’s information board. 

There was a small column dedicated to “ **Help** ”, listing off who Stiles would go to for information, why he needed help.

_Why didn’t you come to us?_ He grimaced. His fault. He hadn’t given Stiles many reasons to trust or confide in him. He’d thought Stiles had noticed the change in tone like he had, a change in their interactions, but it was becoming painfully obvious that that was not true. He rubbed his face and looked away. The room was unchanged still, the mess of schoolwork on the bed, the crinkled, half empty water bottle on the nightstand, a pile of highlighters on the desk. 

The door opened. Scott was still upset, guilt and misery making his shoulders hunch. He frowned, one hand still on the door while staring at Derek.

Derek lifted his brows.

Scott exhaled, slumping further. He shut the door and sat on the edge of Stiles’s bed. “I think the faeries targeted Sheriff Stilinski, which is why Stiles didn’t—didn’t ask for help.” His heart stuttered. 

Derek leaned a hip against the desk, hands braced on the edge. “What aren’t you telling me?” He tried hard to keep his voice calm and even, non-accusatory. 

Scott looked down, shoulders heaving. “Stiles asked me about faeries,” he admitted. “Trying to start a conversation about them, I guess, and I laughed. And then before I could keep teasing him, Sheriff got hurt, and Stiles really freaked out and dropped the subject.” 

Derek turned his face away, jaw clenched to keep from shouting. _Damn_ Stiles and his outrageous loyalty. Of course he’d gone to Scott first, instead of the one person who’d known about the supernatural for his whole life. Of course. He inhaled sharply. 

Scott tensed. 

“We _need_ to talk to Deaton,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know what else to do.” Admitting it burned. “There’s nothing here, no tracks to follow.”

Scott nodded. “We’ll find him.”


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles woke with his face buried in a pillow that smelled of lavender; no familiar scent of laundry detergent and home. He rubbed his face and forced his eyes open. 

Weak sunlight filtered through gauzy blue curtains to his left, revealing the veritable pool of soft, plush gray blankets he was buried in. The bed was enormous, with enough space for him to sprawl and have room to spare on all sides. He sat up, letting the blankets slide off. The green outfit he was wearing was wrinkled and twisted around him from his tossing and turning—or he assumed that was why. He’d slept deeply, so he had almost no memory of the night—the day?—before. He rolled out of bed, fumbling for his backpack. 

He didn’t relish the idea of putting his mud-crusted clothes back on, so he instead rolled them up tightly and stuffed them in his backpack. With no alternatives, he pulled his filthy sneakers on barefoot. He’d rather get blisters than put his crusty socks back on. He checked for his weapons, his wallet-keys-phone, and cautiously opened the door. He retraced his steps from the night before, finding his way through the magenta-painted hall by blurry memory alone. As he walked, the enticing smell of food drifted toward him, luring him better than any faerie trap. 

He could smell some kind of meat, definitely some eggs, and a flowery scent somewhat off kilter from the rest. He supposed coffee was too much to ask for in Faerieland. 

Marwin was working in front of an open window, using a mannequin of…some…kind to create an opulent red dress. He pointed at the table. “You can take those. You’ll blend a little better.”

There was a neat pile of clothes on the chair beside where Stiles had sat before, with green leather boots next to it.

Stiles lifted them carefully. A light, soft shirt with patterns like moth wings and bright green jewels for buttons. The pants had the same pattern, and were just as light. He ran his fingers over the fabric and wondered if it was as fragile as it felt. 

“Eat, then get dressed,” Marwin instructed him. “I have more to tell you about this place.”

Stiles sat in front of a plate of eggs, crisped, thin meat he hoped was bacon, and sugared fruits. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and stiffened. 

Marwin shook his head, but didn't comment on his slip up. “Eat,” he said again, and continued working on the dress. 

Stiles ate. The food was good, filling, but tasted different than he was used to. Saltier, too. He dressed in the hall after he ate at Marwin’s insistence, careful with the buttons and delicate fabric. He had a feeling he was going to rip them as soon as he was walking through the woods again, but at least they were lightweight, so he wouldn’t be smothered to death. He found soft black socks in the boots and pulled them on. At least the boots seemed tough enough to handle all the walking he planned on doing. He folded the outfit he’d slept in and carried it awkwardly to the dining room. “Um…”

Marwin looked up, then waved him off. “Keep them.”

“Okay.” Stiles packed them into his bag. 

Marwin left the dress he was working on and approached the table, watching Stiles gravely. “Sit. I have more to tell you.” 

“Okay.” He sat.

“You will have to travel through the Court of Flames, possibly more, to find an exit path. It’ll be dangerous.” He sighed. “Not _terribly_ so, but dangerous nonetheless. Don’t accept any favors or offers of help. Don’t ask for help. Don’t take the food or drink offered to you.”

Stiles grimaced and wished he’d learned more about foraging. 

“The Summer Solstice is coming and the Courts are planning revels. Many of the Folk are buying, making, or finding gifts, rare and unique gifts, to give to the royal families to gain favor.” He looked annoyed. “They’ll be distracted by that, so you may have some luck as you travel.” He reached for the chair behind him, pulling a deep blue scarf around. “Cover your face.”

Stiles took it, running it through his fingers. It was thin and dark, well made. If it survived his journey, maybe he’d give it to Isaac so he’d have a weather appropriate scarf. 

“Your Sight…” Marwin sighed. “Naturally occurring Sight is very rare in mortals.”

“But I don’t _have_ natural Sight,” Stiles blurted. “I’ve never seen faeries before now, so-”

Marwin looked unconvinced. “You do. No one gave it to you?”

He frowned. “Not that I remember, but they can make us forget things.”

Marwin touched his own cheek, just under his left eye. “You would remember receiving the Sight. It came on its own, which means it’s naturally occurring.” 

Stiles looked away. “Fine. What does the Sight entail?”

“Other than seeing the Folk in the mortal realm, it means you can see past most glamours, which means you’ll see each of them for what they truly are instead of what they want you to see.” He smirked. “It also means, as your Sight becomes stronger, you’ll be able to find the paths more easily. A gift of the naturally Sighted alone.”

“Oh.” Stiles fidgeted with the scarf. “Why are you helping me?”

Marwin lifted a brow. “Do you not want my help?”

“I do—I appreciate it—but I need to make sense of it. Why help me? I have nothing to give you, and you have no reason to want to help me.” 

“Says who?”

“What?”

“Who says I have no reason to want to help you?”

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t know me.”

“So? Sometimes helping someone is less about the person you help than it is about being the kind of person who helps.” He shrugged. “You didn’t come here by choice, you weren’t told of the dangers, and you want to leave. I can help you on the way.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Marwin brushed at his shirt. “Wait a moment.” He walked to the kitchen, his overlong pants swishing gently with every step. He was in a sleeveless white linen shirt and long, loose blue pants today; work clothes, Stiles guessed, glancing at the mannequin. 

The dress was the deep crimson of fresh blood, made of material that looked slick and flowing, giving it the appearance of a wound.

Marwin said, “Gruesome, isn’t it?”

Stiles jumped. “No, it’s…”

“Off-putting?”

“Threatening,” he said and realized he wasn’t lying. 

Marwin looked pleased. “Well, that’s what I was going for. Here, for your bag.” He held out wrapped packages. “Food. Not a lot, since I’m sure you don’t have _much_ room, but you’ll need food.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay.” He put them in his backpack, rearranging the books on the bottom until he got everything to fit. He was going to have to carry the hammer, which was fine by him, but the knife…

“Put it in your right boot. There’s a sheath built in, the handle will rest against your ankle, but the blade won’t cut you.”

Stiles found it. “Wow. Handy.” He looked around. The bright light on the colorful walls made the whole place feel surreal, like he wasn’t actually there. He flexed his hands. 

“Come on, I’ll show you how to leave from here.” 

“Thanks.” Stiles shrugged. Breaking a lifelong habit didn’t happen overnight.

Marwin walked him outside to the edge of his garden and pointed to the side of his house. “Dirt path, lined with purple flowers. You can follow it deeper into the Court of Flames and hopefully find a path before you get into any trouble.”

“I’m not holding my breath for that,” he muttered, and shuffled his feet when Marwin laughed. The boots were surprisingly comfortable, molded around his feet and ankles like they were tailored for him. Magic. Marwin couldn’t have measured him. 

“Before you go.” He looked at Stiles seriously. “Didn’t Kisallis try to get anything from you?”

Stiles blinked. “Yeah, my name. But I told them no, and they asked who put the geas on me.”

Marwin looked deeply shocked. 

_Great._ “Why?” he asked. “What’s a geas?”

“A…it’s…it would mean you can’t be compelled by the Folk. A geas is not granted lightly.”

Stiles shook his head. “But I haven’t _met_ any faeries.”

“I believe you.” Marwin studied him for a moment, expression calculating and distant. “Do your best not to let anyone know that.”

Stiles thought about his hand, writing threatening notes out of his control. This would be the time to ask, so he did.

Marwin frowned. “You remember writing the note? It was only your hand?”

“Yes, I even tried to stop it.” He held up his arm, where his fingernails had left scratches and bruising. 

“The fact that they were only able to control one arm means they could not control you completely.” Marwin’s brows furrowed. “One of the Folk must’ve ordered you to write yourself those notes if you sought help, but couldn’t exert the control needed to make you forget you’d done it.”

“So…?”

He blinked. “Oh, Kisallis was still correct, although I don’t understand why it only partially worked at first, and completely once Kisallis tried to compel you to tell them your name.” He studied a blue rose beside his foot. “I suppose if the geas were inactive until you were compelled, it might’ve been half as powerful. But who would grant it?” He seemed to be talking to himself, which was good, because Stiles didn’t have answers for him. Marwin shook his head. “If the geas fails, give yourself a little cut with that knife. It’s iron and will most likely break you out of it.”

“Most likely?”

He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.” He tipped his head at him. “Good luck, Stiles.”

“Tha—I appreciate it.” He set off down the path Marwin had pointed out. It really was lined with purple flowers that smelled like both lavender and citrus, somehow. The air was warm and damp, the sky clear and sunny but not harsh. Stiles hoped it was a good sign. It didn’t seem like quite morning or afternoon, somewhere between the two, which made sense, considering Stiles had no idea when he’d fallen asleep or how long he’d slept. He supposed it didn’t matter, as long as he’d gotten some rest and could function. 

The path curved as he walked, directing him east, he thought, and it wasn’t long before Marwin’s house was entirely out of sight. Stiles thought about him as he walked. He looked young, although older than Stiles, even though he seemed…a lot older. How long had he been here? He certainly knew a lot about the place for a mortal, so he’d probably been here a while. Did he want to go home? Didn’t he miss being among people he could thank or ask for help without possibly indenturing himself forever? It seemed like it would be exhausting, having to consider every spoken word, every action, and every action and word of everyone around, while just trying to exist. 

Stiles dropped his gaze, watching his new boots as he walked. Maybe it’d been that way for Marwin in the mortal realm, too, and a place like this, with magic and rare fabrics he could use to create garments he’d never have achieved in the mortal realm, might be better. Freeing. Here everyone had to follow the same rules or face the same consequences, no matter what. That was not the case in the mortal realm. It was, in a way, as reassuring as it was daunting. 

The noise reached him first, chattering and clicking, footsteps, rustling clothes. Then the smell: food, blood, and a _green_ smell like the nursery near the grocery store in Beacon Hills. Smoke fogged the air, carrying the scent of cooking meat. Someone shrieked, then laughed a noisy, bright cackle of delight. 

Stiles looped the scarf around his neck and the bottom of his face, covering his mouth and nose but leaving his eyes. 

The path widened and faded from dirt to black stone, worn smooth by hundreds of boots and hooves stamping over it countless times. Stone pots bubbled on open flames, tree trunk cauldrons gave off roiling blue fog, and fey milled around in groups, chattering, making trades, buying masks or clothes or food. 

A market? Stiles did not understand this place at all. He saw hobs, hags, tall creatures with weathered skin and rusty red hats, willowy beings like Kisallis, unworldly beautiful beings, and creatures he could neither identify nor describe. One with a rack of antlers the color of lava passed Stiles, giving him a disdainful look as she passed. 

Stiles backed away. He should’ve gone around. But if he got lost, he might not find his way out of the woods again. 

A small, humanoid creature with teal skin snatched a handful of berries from a table, winked and tossed one at Stiles when it noticed him watching, and disappeared into a crowd. 

He put the berry in his pocket, baffled. 

Lovely, fast-paced music shot through him. It was lively and fun, enticing. Like he could be included in the fun if he just found where it was coming from. He slipped between a long haired creature with tusks and what looked like a satyr, making his way toward the source in a haze. The music made his blood feel warm, rushing beneath his skin, flushing his cheeks. 

He floated toward it, ignorant to the swell of laughter until he tripped over a flared tail. He blinked once, twice, each involving more and more effort. 

The faeries were laughing as they watched a group of humans dance to music flowing like a river from a small blue creature plucking at an instrument Stiles didn’t recognize. 

Stiles clamped his mouth shut, breath shuddery and loud behind his scarf. 

The humans were dancing drunkenly, most of them barefoot and leaving bloody trails and footprints on the stone. A couple tipped over with exhaustion, only to jerk up right as the tune sped up. A teenage girl twirled past, her feet cut to shreds beneath her long, flowery skirt. Her clothes were filthy, but her expression was blissful, enraptured by the music.

Stiles shoved a faerie aside as she spun past. He caught her arm and yanked her out of the dance.

“ _No!_ " She scratched his hand and tore herself away. 

Stiles lunged, grabbing her again.

She squirmed, but she was trembling from exhaustion; her initial burst of strength left her. She struggled weakly, but Stiles was able to drag her away, out of the circle of watching fey. “Let me go,” she gasped. “Please, please, I have to dance. It’s so beautiful.” She started to cry. 

“You’re bleeding.” Stiles couldn’t make himself cut her with the knife in his boot. 

She was already hurt, already bleeding and pale, panic making her eyes bright, feverish. She stretched her body toward the music, squirming and writhing like a toddler that wanted down. She opened her mouth, panting. She was going to scream. 

Stiles thrust his hand in his pocket. He shoved a nail in her mouth without thinking, clacking it against her teeth before it rolled across her tongue. Stiles clamped a hand over her mouth, looking around wildly, but none of the faeries noticed or cared what they were doing. 

Her struggles slowed, then stopped abruptly. She slumped. 

Stiles let go of her. “Are-are you-”

She blinked. Her chin trembled, then she started crying again. Not the frantic, longing cry of a charmed human but quiet, exhausted hiccups, her eyes dulling. She took the nail out of her mouth and clenched it in her fist. She shuddered. 

“Can I…do anything?” Stiles asked. He didn’t know what, but he couldn’t just leave her there, filthy and hurt and scared. 

“I need to go home,” she rasped. 

“So do I-”

Huge hands clamped down on his shoulders. Thick fingers dug into his skin, and then Stiles was in the air.

He hit the ground hard, skidding his palm and dropping his hammer. He scrambled for it, jostling his banged-up body. He leaped up swinging. 

A faerie and some large creature with tusks and bright green eyes stalked toward him; the faerie had green-tinted pearlescent skin and hooves at the ends of her legs, with two gold chains hanging from the short horns on her forehead. The creature—ogre?—stood about a foot taller than her, with stone-gray skin and a frown. 

Stiles flexed his hand on his hammer, twisted on his heel, and ran. 

A laugh tinkled behind him. “Cdubld, grab him.”

Stiles hurled himself between two hags who hissed at him. His scarf slid down to his neck, exposing his face.

The ground shook, his only warning before he was grabbed again. 

He lunged at the ground, slipping free, only for Cdubld to catch his backpack. 

“Hold him, he’s just a mortal,” the faerie snapped. 

“I am _trying_ , Phira,” the ogre growled. She did not sound pleased. 

Stiles twisted and swung his hammer. It hit her hand with a crack like it struck stone. 

Cdubld howled. 

Stiles bolted into the trees. 

“Are you alright? Let me see,” Phira crooned. “Hey, she needs medicine,” she snapped. “I’ll be right back, Cdubld. Wait for me.” 

Stiles tripped over a root. He cursed as he landed. His battered body throbbed, refusing to listen to his orders to _get up right now._

A hoof stamped on his ankle.

He yelped and yanked his leg in. Miraculously, it didn’t feel injured. 

“Ugh,” Phira grumbled. “Where did you get those?” She had short, black hair twined with longer vines and glowing yellow eyes. 

Stiles pushed up onto his knees. He’d run at her, hit her with the hammer, and escape. 

“Oh, never mind. Listen,” she purred, her voice going deep, persuasive. “You are going to come with me. You want to come with me. We’re very good friends, and we’re going to a party.” 

Stiles lunged. The hammer whistled past Phira’s head as she ducked. 

She skipped back several feet. “Fine.” Her eyes glowed brighter, pupils overtaking them. 

Stiles stared at her, breathing hard. 

She pouted. “I _told_ Mivian it was getting stronger.”

Stiles lifted the hammer and backed up. 

She eyed him warily, but didn’t follow. Apparently she didn’t want to face him if her compulsion didn’t work. 

Stiles ran deeper into the woods. He didn’t hear her or Cdubld following him, but he didn’t want to risk checking, so he kept running. It didn’t cross his mind until a minute later that she had known him. He slowed down to a walk.

She hadn’t been surprised that she couldn’t glamour him, but annoyed. She’d said “it” was getting stronger. She said she told someone it was getting stronger, i.e. she’d talked about him, which meant prior knowledge. 

Stiles wiped sweat out of his eyes. He didn’t know her. Was she the one who’d lured him here? He should’ve attacked her again—tried to get some answers. Stupid. He berated himself until the thick scent of wood smoke pulled him out of his head. He looked up and froze.

Rough tents were set up in a wide circle around a campfire. Redcap faeries sat on logs and rocks, polishing wicked knives and swords. 

Stiles backed up. What he’d read about redcaps was…not good. He’d rather try his luck with Phira and Cdubld again. He crept backward one slow, cautious step at a time. He just needed to change directions, creep back to the market, and hope he could slip by unnoticed. 

Wind blew through, a gentle breeze that barely rustled the loose parts of his shirt. 

He backed up another step.

The redcap nearest him stiffened. 

_No, no, you didn’t hear anything._ He held his breath as he continued to back away. If he could just get out of sight before they turned, before they looked, they’d never have to know he was –

Two redcaps leaped over the one that’d gone tense, rusty boots slamming into the dirt. They had sharp, narrow swords and knives, red-stained hats and teeth. They were _fast._

Stiles bolted left, ordering himself to ignore his throbbing hip and scraped up palm. 

A blade sliced across his side; the black of the shirt parted like a zipper, and his skin burned. 

He dropped his hand to the wound and hurled himself the other way, dodging another swing on pure instinct. 

A redcap dropped from a tree in front of him. They were taller or at least as tall as Stiles and muscular, almost human-like except the impossibly pale skin under their hats. The redcap in front of him bared her teeth and brandished a sword, tracking him with green, gleaming eyes. 

Stiles swiveled at the two behind him. He swung the hammer as hard as he could, heard it clang against the sword even though he’d been sure he would miss. He swung again. 

_Crunch._

The redcap snarled, tossed his sword to his other hand, and sliced Stiles across the forearm before he could backpedal. 

Stiles retreated with a hiss. 

The redcaps stared at the blood on his arm and side like hungry animals. 

Breathing hard, Stiles observed them, hammer held in front of him like a shield. The one with the broken hand was closest to him, flanked by two with knives rather than swords. Shorter reach. He lowered his hammer, shoulders slumping, letting himself shake.

They didn’t relax, watching with the same intensity. So much for a fake out.

Bracing himself to get cut again, he lunged at the already-injured redcap. He slammed the hammer down on its head as hard as he could, but he didn’t stop to assess the damage to his own wrist and arm. He felt another cut on his shoulder; he kept running. His hand felt strange and numb around the hammer, but he kept clutching it, terrified of losing his only weapon. 

The redcaps crashed along behind him, shouting to each other in a language he neither understood nor even recognized. 

The trees around him were enormous, nearly twice as wide as him and towering over his head, so when he noticed a deep hollow in one, he didn’t hesitate. He threw himself into it, wedging himself as deep as he could and going still.

The redcaps thundered by moments later, noisy, joyful, bloodthirsty. 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. Eventually, the sounds of the hunting party faded, leaving only the swish of wind through leaves and his ragged breaths. Blood was dampening his shirt from the three cuts; they hurt, but he definitely should’ve had worse. He touched the rips in the fabric, marveling at them. Only precisely where the blades had sliced was ripped, no wider. It must’ve been some kind of magical material.

Phira’s stomp hadn’t even bruised his ankle, he remembered, and she’d been surprised. 

Marwin had given him protective clothing. 

Stiles mouthed a silent thanks. His wounds would probably—definitely—be worse if he hadn’t. He relaxed, letting the hammer sag in his grip. He shuddered. He just wanted to go home. 

A stick poked against his injured shoulder. 

He shifted forward, unwilling to leave his hiding place. 

Another poke, followed by long, spindly fingers brushing down to the cut on his forearm. 

He stiffened. “What-”

A fire sputtered, briefly blinding him. Six small creatures stared at him, clinging to the walls of the hollow. They had long, delicate fingers and eyes that blinked vertically at him. A hunk of blue wax sat dripping next to them, flame dancing merrily on a coiled wick. The creatures had four limbs and bodies that looked like wood in various shades, slim and bumpy. One prodded his wound again, then, creeping closer, eyes on Stiles’s face, began to peel the shirt away. 

“Wait-”

It froze. 

The others blinked at him. 

Stiles tried to think of what they could be, if they were dangerous. 

Two swung down from the tree, scampering around his feet while the one by his arm examined the cut. A fourth climbed onto his shoulder, using its thin fingers to smear flowery scented cream on the cut. They chittered over the one on his side before smearing more cream on each of the cuts. The two by his feet climbed him like a jungle gym. They avoided his hammer. 

Stiles held still. It seemed like they were harmless, possibly helpful, but he didn’t want to let his guard down, so he waited. 

They sealed gauzy pieces of blue fabric over his wounds, like bandages but softer than any he’d ever used. They moved with him rather than bunching when he moved.

The creatures climbed back up the wall, watching him. 

Stiles bit his tongue before he could thank them. Instead, he pulled his backpack around and dug through his supplies until he found a bundle of berries Marwin had packed for him. He handed them, and the one in his pocket, over. 

The creatures chittered out of mouths on both sides of their heads, accepting the offerings excitedly. 

Stiles let out his breath. “I’m going to sit.” He sat. The creatures, busily eating their berries, merely joined him at the bottom of the tree. He closed his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

It didn’t take long for anxiety to set in. Stiles had to keep moving if he wanted to get home, preferably without getting attacked or stabbed again. He was sore all over, even with the bandages covering his cuts and whatever ointment the little creatures had put on them. They’d curled into the bark of the tree after eating the berries, the gleam of their eyes going out. Stiles was pretty sure they’d fallen asleep. 

He kept his breaths measured as he walked, trying not to think about his shoulder…or his arm…or the worst one on his side. He located the market but kept his distance, choosing to walk along the length of it while hidden semi-safely in the trees. He hoped that girl was okay. He’d broken her out of her trance, but now she was aware and trapped. Had he helped her or just made her miserable on top of stuck?

He grimaced. Homework. He would think of his homework. He used the noise and smell of the market to stay on track and imagined how much he was missing at school. Plenty of algebra, he was okay with the literature coursework—just had to read and catch up, most likely—but he was going to fall irreparably behind in Spanish, and his mountain of chemistry two homework was probably going to crush him. That only mattered if he made it home. 

He tapped his hammer against the side of his leg. His skin was crawling, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end like a frightened cat.

There were things in the trees around him, maybe above him, watching. They weren’t following him or approaching, just observing, hungry, patient. 

He was pretty sure they were only waiting to see if he would die so they could eat his corpse. A horrifying thought, but hopefully it meant he was safe as long as he was alive. From those particular creatures, anyway. Anything else, well…He rotated his wrist, wincing as it popped. Hefting the hammer was making his arm feel stiff and sore; he could still use it, but what about in a few hours? He inhaled and exhaled, slow and deliberate, counting, until he could concentrate again. 

Glittering, blue lines crisscrossed over the ground. 

Stiles lifted his head. Red and violet lines joined the blue ones, spanning as far as he could see, but they faded and flickered as he watched, like a slow moving light show. He squinted, but it didn’t make the lines any clearer. He tried widening his eyes, closing them, and using only one, but the only time he could truly see them with any clarity was when they were in his peripherals, which wasn’t going to do him any good. 

He was pretty sure the lines were paths. Where the paths led, what the colors meant, he had no idea, but Marwin had said he’d be able to see them. 

Or they weren’t paths but magical tripwires and he was about to get ambushed. 

His feet tangled as he backpedaled, twisting to check over his shoulder. He seemed to be alone still, under the cover of the wide, towering trees. There were still eyes on him. He gulped and adjusted his grip on the hammer, flexing feeling back into his fingers. 

The glittery lines brightened. An orange one cut through the others, wider, unfurling in front of him. He turned, but it didn’t extend in both directions, just in front of him. Fifteen feet out, it curved left, away from the market he’d been sticking to. He chewed his lip, tracing the gleaming path as far as he could see. 

Marwin hadn’t specifically told him to go through or stay in the market—just that he’d have to cross the Court of Flames. That was pretty unspecific. And moot, if this ended up being a path home. 

Stiles figured he was already lost in the faerie realm, what was he afraid of? Somewhere behind him, an animal bellowed. He jumped. Okay. He was afraid of a lot of things, but he needed to find a way home and this—light show looked promising. 

He followed the orange path as it veered away from the market. The scents faded first, then the noise, until he was left with damp foliage and the soft crunch of dirt under his boots. The air smelled so intensely green that he could almost taste it, like grass on his tongue. He laughed. He’d done that once, as a dare from Scott; he’d eaten a handful of grass and whined about the taste. The texture had been worse; stringy and almost leafy but not enough like lettuce to calm him down. That’d been awful.

A branch snapped. 

Stiles looked up, free hand going to his dropped scarf. 

A small, humanoid creature with sky blue-skin and white hair glared at him. It had iridescent wings like a dragonfly and four wide, blue-gray eyes, with two long, slim noses and a mouth that was shaped like a triangle. Its lips twisted, eyes narrowing, before it scurried off toward the market. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, screw you too.” He looked back at the orange path. 

It had faded, the glow dulling to almost nothing. 

He kept following it anyway; as long as he could see it, he’d might as well try. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He wished Scott was here, or Erica or Boyd. _Maybe_ Isaac. Or Derek. He was an asshole, but he usually had Stiles’s back, especially in supernatural situations. Jackson, Stiles could live without. Maybe Allison, whose crossbow would be helpful, or Lydia, who’d probably understand the paths, Stiles’s Sight, and the entire faerie realm by now. 

Still, a werewolf would be best, what with the healing and the strength, the claws and fangs. Just someone to watch his back, really. He hated being alone. 

He squinted to keep the orange path in sight. The pack was probably looking for him by now. How they’d find him was a complete mystery, but surely someone had realized he was missing and noticed his notes. If they searched his room. Would they?

He shrugged the question off. They would. Derek would think of that, at least, searching for scents as well as visual clues, unlike Scott, who would look for his jeep and figure it was unsolvable, call it a day.

He tapped the hammer on his leg. A day. Had his dad been released from the hospital yet? 

Probably. Yes. It’d been two days. Hadn’t it? Stiles wasn’t sure. Time felt strange here, fast and slow at once. Had John even noticed Stiles was missing? Was he okay alone, with stitches and a concussion?

Scott was probably watching out for him. 

Maybe. If they’d realized Stiles was gone at all.

He shook his head. He wasn’t entirely sure what day it was or how long it’d been; he hoped the pack was looking for him but he was going to try to get back on his own anyway, so even if they weren’t…He was going to get home. He rubbed his hand over his head and looked up; the leaves blocked out a lot of the sun, but he could see pockets of light between them, peppering the ground ahead. 

The orange path was gone.

He heaved a sigh. All of the paths were gone. He kept walking. Maybe they’d come back if he kept walking. He tugged his phone out of his pocket. 

The screen hadn’t changed, the date and time and battery still the same as when he’d arrived. He tried unlocking the screen, but it seemed frozen until it went dark. He brushed his thumb against the power button, but with no service, it wasn’t like he could do much with it anyway. 

A small gray thing with floppy bat ears and a squashed nose leaped out of the bushes. 

Stiles yelped, tripping backwards, but the creature caught on his arm. 

It had sharp little claws that it used to scurry across his chest. It ripped his phone out of his hand while he was flapping at it and dropped to the ground. It shot off to the right.

Stiles bolted after it. The thing was fast for something with such short legs. “Give it back or I’m going to crush you,” he shouted, waving the hammer. 

The thing turned, ears lifting, and kept running. 

Stiles bore down, pushing himself until his legs were burning, a stitch in his side threatening to double him over. He pitched forward. He yelped as he hit the ground on his hurt side; he launched back to his feet. 

The creature giggled maniacally, ears flapping as it ran. 

Stiles lunged.

The thing leaped, sailing into the arms of a waiting faerie. 

Stiles jerked to a stop, feet tangling. Panting, he glared at the faerie. 

She was standing in front of a wooden cabin set up on stilts so it was high off the ground; she was wearing a dress made of green vines, with delicate, clinking branches for hair, deep brown skin, and glowing amber eyes. She took the phone from the creature, tapped it on the nose with one long, sharp finger, and tossed the phone to Stiles. 

He caught it mostly on accident, trapping it against his chest and then sliding it into his palm. He tucked it in his pocket, eyes narrowed. 

“We didn’t want that,” she told the wriggling creature in her arms. 

Stiles bit his tongue to keep from thanking her. How often did he thank people in the mortal realm? He hadn’t thought of himself as this weirdly polite.

She studied him, then looked over his shoulder. “You’re going the wrong way.” She put the thing up on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, then reached into a pocket of her dress. She pulled out a jar with a cork stuck in the top, filled with fizzy orange liquid; she held it out to him. “You’re going to need this.”

Stiles eyed it, then her, warily. He shook his head. “I can’t pay you.”

“I don’t want you to. Take it.”

Faeries couldn’t lie, but just because she didn’t _want_ him to pay her, didn’t mean she didn’t _expect_ him to.

She sighed. “I, Jallena of the Autumn Court Woods, vow to have no ulterior motives and not to collect payment for this offering.” She wagged it at him.

He glanced at the—the gremlin on her shoulder before approaching. He stopped just close enough that he could fully extend his arm to accept the jar. 

Jallena placed it in his palm with gravity. “Don’t drink it. You’ll need it later.” 

“Okay.”

She eyed him closely. “You shouldn’t get lost in these woods.” 

As if he could help that. He had no idea where he was, which direction he was going, or where he needed to go. It wasn’t as if there were road signs. 

Jallena pointed. “Go that way.” She pointed in the direction Stiles had come from. “That way lies trouble.”

“Perfect,” he muttered. He squinted at her. “Why are you helping me?”

“Who says I’m helping _you?_ ”

He glanced at the jar in his hand.

She smiled, baring a double layer of teeth. “Tell Fauriei hello from me.” She swept into the house, carrying the gremlin with her.

Who was Fauriei? And what was in the jar? Stiles held it away from himself. He should leave it. But she’d said he would need it, which couldn’t have been a lie. He started walking, slowly, in the direction she’d pointed him in. He couldn’t imagine what he would need it for or why, although staring at it _did_ make it seem more and more like orange soda. He had the sudden, burning desire to taste it.

He cursed and swung his backpack off his shoulders, banging against his cut side, and put the jar in with the books, tucked into the clothes Marwin had given him. Since his bag was open, he transferred his wallet, keys, and phone into it. He didn’t trust that little gremlin not to try to steal the rest. He left about six nails in each pocket, since they would burn anything that tried to pickpocket him. 

The sky, when he could see it through the trees, was still bright blue, cloudless, with the sun shining from somewhere he couldn’t see. He still couldn’t tell what time of day it was. He was getting hungry but he didn’t want to stop to eat. 

He chewed the inside of his lip. He was going to have to walk until it was too dark to see, maybe after if he could manage without breaking his neck. Where could he wait out the night safely?

He pressed his palm against the bandaged wound on his side, frowning as it throbbed. He eyed the trees around him. He could try climbing one of them to sleep in for the night. He wasn’t sure if he would make it very far or if being off the ground would even be safer, but the leaf cover looked promising. More than laying out in the open, like lunch set out on a platter. 

He rubbed his side and dropped his hand. It wouldn’t be his first sleepless night. He hoped the lights came back. He’d prefer taking a chance on a random path than wandering aimlessly.


	15. Chapter 15

“Derek!” Scott’s shout carried to him over the traffic at the park, the chatter of people enjoying the warm evening. 

Derek ran. 

Boyd was behind him, Isaac to the west, both prepared to cut Deaton off if he ran, and Jackson and Erica were in the preserve guarding the spot where Stiles had disappeared, under orders not to leave unless Derek specifically told them it was okay. 

He dodged around a man with a poodle and threw himself into the road. He darted in front of a pickup truck that blasted its horn, but he was already in the next lane, twisting out of the way of a gray sedan and running to the sidewalk. He vaulted a fence, crossed a yard littered with toys, and jumped the next fence. 

Scott had Deaton pinned to the side of a house, one hand on his chest, breathing hard. 

Deaton looked at Derek blandly. “Mr. Hale, I’m sure there are better ways to get ahold of me.”

Derek bared his teeth. “Why don’t you tell me what those ways are? Because I’ve tried everything but a carrier pigeon.” He inhaled, but Deaton just smelled like Deaton, minus the animal and antiseptic smells that usually accompanied him. “You haven’t been to the clinic in days.” He nodded at Scott. 

Scott eased back with a frown.

“I’ve been out of town, Mr. Hale.” He pulled his shirt straight. “Your pack isn’t the only one that needs my help.” He walked around to the porch, then opened his door. “Come in. Tell me what’s going on.” 

Derek glanced at Scott. They followed him inside together, pausing over the threshold to observe the wrinkle in the runner and the heavy scent of dust. The hair on the back of Derek’s neck raised. His fangs pushed at his gums, aching to come out, but he resisted. He stepped around Scott to look at the front room, the beige sofa and beige recliner. He’d never been to Deaton’s home, or really interacted with him outside of the clinic. His home made him a person.

Deaton lifted his brows when Derek looked at him. He turned his back on them and walked deeper in.

Scott followed first. 

Derek looked once again at the living room—even the rug on the hardwood floor was beige—before following them.

Deaton gestured at the gleaming table, where Scott was already seated. “Go ahead.” 

Derek sat, even though he wanted to pace. Wanted to snarl and demand and push. He inhaled through his nose. “We need to get to Faerie.”

Deaton turned toward the stove, setting a kettle on the front eye. 

Scott shot Derek an annoyed look. “Stiles disappeared more than a week ago, and he’s got a bunch of faerie stuff—he was being stalked by some faeries.” He rubbed his hands against his legs. “We want to find a way in so we can get him back.”

“I see.” Deaton turned back around. “Well, you can’t use the same path he used.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not for werewolves. But I can find a path for you.”

Derek’s gums throbbed. “How?”

Scott shot him an annoyed look. “He has books, right?”

“I do have books.”

Scott held his hands out. “We just need to get to Faerie so we can get Stiles and bring him home.” 

Deaton nodded thoughtfully. “I can get you there. It’s a very simple spell, but not until tomorrow.”

Derek rolled his eyes. 

“Tomorrow?” Scott repeated, dismayed. 

“It has to be done at dawn,” Deaton said.

“A between time,” Derek muttered. 

Deaton smiled. “Yes, precisely. The Folk prefer between times, so the spell will work better then.”

“Oh.” Scott looked upset. “Is there anything we should do for the spell?”

Deaton frowned, then offered them a wide, uncharacteristic smile. “Yes, actually. You, the alpha, should soak in some herbs. I will make a list. Your betas should collect them for you while you prepare the bath.” 

Derek watched as he made the list on a grocery pad on the fridge. 

Scott was _beaming._

Derek hated that his face was turning red. A bath?

They left together, Scott clutching the list and looking far too gleeful about the whole situation. “Oregano,” Scott read off, “ _rosemary_ , garlic, paprika, pepper.”

“Okay, Scott.” 

“Onions, celery, and bay leaves. You’re going to smell so good,” he chortled. 

Derek scowled at him. “Just get everything,” he muttered. “I will be at the loft.”

Scott was already texting.

Derek sent messages to Erica, Isaac, and Jackson, telling them all to leave their posts and meet Scott at the grocery store. Boyd was still across the street waiting for orders, so Derek went to him next. 

“So? Did he have answers?”

Derek shrugged irritably. “He said he can get us in, but not until tomorrow.”

Boyd nodded. “How?”

His jaw stiffened. “Apparently there’s a spell. And a ritual.” He glared over his shoulder. “It’s…involved.” 

Boyd seemed to brace himself and nodded again. “What is it?”

Derek looked at him face on. He was young. Derek sometimes forgot how _young_ his pack was, all of them. He needed to remind himself of that both when they were annoying him and in moments like this, when they were so clearly scared and still willing to go forward. His mouth twisted with distaste. “Scott’s gathering the herbs, but I’m the only one who will have to do it.”

“What is it?” Boyd repeated, more insistently. 

“I have to soak in an herb bath.”

His eyes widened, body stilling. His mouth curved. His eyes gleamed. 

Derek gritted his teeth. At least they were cheering up after the anxiety and stress of the past week and a half. It didn’t annoy him any less. “Yeah, laugh it up. Go help Scott and the others gather the herbs,” he growled. “I’ll meet you at the loft.”

“Okay.” Boyd turned to watch him go.

Derek took the time to rinse dust out of the rarely used bathtub, glaring at the fluttery gray curtain Erica had hung there at some point. He wondered if Stiles had had to bathe in herbs to open a path. Why would he do all that instead of talking to them? To save his dad, obviously, but he’d disappeared so unexpectedly. How had he had time to do this ritual without any of them noticing?

He heard the pack, plus Lydia, Scott, and Allison, clattering their way up the stairs and turned the water on to fill the tub. He supposed Stiles, being human and coveted, apparently, by the fey, wouldn’t need to do the ritual. 

This was humiliating.

He opened the door. “In here,” he growled. 

Erica and Isaac crowded into the bathroom first, followed by Scott, Jackson, and Boyd. The other two stayed in the front room. 

Erica beamed. “Oh my god.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Do you want me to add bubbles? I can make some with egg whites.”

“No,” he growled. 

She rolled her eyes. “Jeeze, it’s just a bath.” 

“How do we do this?” Isaac asked. He had jars in his hands. 

“Deaton wrote that we should put three tablespoons of each at least, and that Derek needs to stay in for two hours.”

Erica hissed. “The water will get cold.” 

Scott shrugged and started dumping oregano in the water.

“Okay, Scott, that’s more than three tablespoons.”

He grinned. “It says _at least_ on the paper. I just want to be sure.” 

Even with the door open, the bathroom was filling with steam and feeling way too crowded. “Just dump it in and go. You should all go home,” he added. 

Boyd shook his head. 

“It’s a school night. Dump the herbs, then go.”

“What if something goes wrong?” Erica asked, dropping a hand to her hip impatiently. 

“Isaac will be here.”

Isaac dumped a handful of black pepper into the bath, avoiding eye contact. 

“I already told my parents I was staying over with you to sit in on your classes tomorrow,” Boyd said. “So I have to stay.”

Derek grunted. Great. Another reason for him to feel guilty when looking Mr. and Mrs. Boyd in the eye. Perfect. 

“My parents are out of town,” Erica chirped. She batted her lashes. “I don’t want to stay home all alone.”

“Is that what you told them when they left?”

She grinned. “Nope.”

“We want to help,” Boyd said quietly. He lobbed onion pieces into the bath. “We’re staying.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine, but you’re not staying _in here._ Get out.”

Isaac shot him an uneasy smile, wiping rosemary off his hands and into the tub, and retreated. 

Jackson dumped a bunch of bay leaves in and left without a word.

Scott was the last to go. He glanced at the bath, now completely filled with fragrant spices and water, then at Derek. 

Derek glared. 

“Thanks.” Scott left, closing the door behind him.

Thanks for _what?_ He shook his head with disgust. He had a bath to take.

The water was thankfully still scorching hot when he got in, and it smelled like soup. The onions were a little much. It felt gritty, too, and something was making his skin sting. He flicked a bay leaf off his arm, glowering.

He felt like chicken marinating for dinner. He had no idea what bathing—soaking—had to do with faerie paths or spells to open them, but he wasn’t happy about it. He leaned back, trying to get his muscles to relax. The hot water was nice, even if it smelled and felt like he was sitting in soup for a cannibal witch. 

He just wanted to get Stiles home, so they could all get back to their daily lives. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. 

Out in the living room, Boyd and Isaac were bickering over whether Derek would buy a TV or not while Scott and Erica were muttering about ghosts. Lydia and Allison were discussing bestiaries and Allison’s new arrows, how she’d had to get accustomed to the weight difference. They were all close together, it sounded like, heartbeats pulsing from a localized point. The couch creaked when Scott shifted his weight. A cushion thumped to the floor when Boyd stood. He moved away from the group and called someone—Derek heard it ring before he turned his attention back to Scott and Erica.

“It’s gonna be over soon,” Scott said. “Deaton will get us to Stiles, then he’ll be home.”

“Yeah.” All mentions of ghosts had stopped. Derek should’ve listened closer. 

He let himself drift along with the flow of their conversation, barely hearing the words. It was an unfamiliar comfort, even if there was one voice missing. He tensed when someone came up the stairs, but they knocked at the door rather than bursting through it.

“Pizza’s here,” Boyd announced. 

“Should we take some to Derek?” Isaac asked. 

Derek looked down at the bath, the pale tops of his knees poking through the water. 

“No, he won’t want anyone in there,” Boyd said quietly. 

Maybe Boyd was his favorite. 

“No one wants to see that,” Jackson scoffed. 

Lydia hummed. 

Derek rolled his eyes and sunk lower so his ears were under the water. He had no desire to hear Erica’s comments. 

It was quiet when he finally drained the bath; there were only a couple murmurs from the front room as he crossed to the shower stall, rinsing himself and picking rosemary leaves and flakes of oregano off his arms and legs. 

When he emerged, the lights were off except one lamp by the couch that he had no memory of—possibly Mr. Boyd had sent it over at some point—and everyone was asleep except Lydia and Allison.

The betas were all slumped together on the couch, even Jackson, whose eyes opened to narrow gold slits when Derek came out. 

Lydia looked up. Her eyes were stormy. “Faeries are tricky.”

“I don’t plan to stay longer than it takes to get Stiles and come home.” He had no way of knowing how long that would take, of course, but it was the best he could offer. 

“We need to learn more about all of this,” she said, dismissing his half-assed reassurance. “Being oblivious is going to get one of us killed.” She glared up at Derek from the worn, wide blue recliner he and Isaac had hauled home from the thrift store, daring him to refute her. 

Allison nodded. 

Derek bit back the urge to snap at her that she had no part in this, because it was untrue and unproductive. However horrible it was, whatever Allison’s relationship to Scott, Kate had tied their families together with blood and smoke. Would he prefer a lifelong nemesis or an uncomfortable ally? Better to keep her where he could see her anyway. “Okay,” he said at last. “That’s true.”

Lydia relaxed fractionally. “From now on, training will alternate between physical lessons for the werewolves and education for all of us.” She clenched her fists. “We have to know what’s real before it comes to kill us.”

Derek glared at the floor. Refusing on the principle of not taking orders from a semi-human teenager seemed counterproductive as well. At least the betas were asleep and couldn’t witness this—except Jackson, who didn’t respect Derek anyway. “Fine. You’re—right.” Now he’d have to figure out _how_ to educate them on what was real and what was made up human stories. 

He imagined Stiles would have a list they could work from.

“Good.” Lydia nodded. She stood and grabbed her purse, then looked down at Allison. “Come on, we’ll drive you home.”

Jackson stood as well, snorting derisively as he glanced over the other four, before following the girls to the door. 

Allison glanced over her shoulder and mouthed, “Good luck,” before they left. 

Derek sighed and collapsed into the chair they’d vacated. He looked over the betas, who were tangled up together and reeked of pizza. He was surprised Scott had fallen asleep. The other three, he’d found napping in sunny spots all over the loft on many occasions, but never like this, like they were seeking comfort. 

Erica grunted and stretched; the whole mass of them sighed and shifted, microscopic twitches until they’d sprawled further, taking up the space Jackson had left. 

Derek turned toward the window. He waited until nearly dawn, watching the sky. There was no point in waking the others, so he left quietly, without his car so the noise didn’t alert them. He met Deaton on the western edge of the preserve. 

“Did you do the ritual?”

“Yes,” Derek growled. He was uneasy again, hackles raised, and he smelled like a rotisserie chicken. 

“Good. I’ve got the spell and ingredients. The path is this way.” Deaton plunged into the trees without a backwards glance.

Derek followed him. “How sure are you that this will take me to Stiles?”

Deaton kept walking. “You’ll arrive fairly close to him. If he’s moving, you will have to _find_ him, but that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Great.”

“Yes.” Deaton stopped once the road was no longer visible, leaving them in the pitch dark. He knelt and muttered something. Blue flames leapt to life in front of him. “I’ll just get it started, then you’ll say the spell.”

“What spell?” Derek felt like he’d missed a step here.

Deaton stood. Dirt and dry twigs and bark clung to the knees of his pants. He smiled. It looked strange. 

Derek could count on one hand the number of times Deaton had smiled at him. 

“The spell will come to you when I light the ingredients.” 

He frowned. “Okay…” He’d never heard of _that_ , but he supposed there were worse things than a dud spell.

Deaton opened his hand over the flames. Acorns, flowers, and straw tumbled out, hissing and popping when they hit the fire. Light smoke curled up toward them, heavily perfumed. 

Derek’s nose itched. Words came to him, hovering just behind his teeth, battering to get out. He locked his jaw, casting a wild glance at Deaton. _This is wrong._ He should not be doing this, he wasn’t _supposed_ —

“Go ahead,” Deaton urged. “Speak the words. That’s how the spell works.”

Derek shook his head, but the smoke was clogging up his nose, stopping up his breath. He opened his mouth to inhale. “In the dawn where faeries dwell, no more secrets left to tell. The path the wolf shall walk, lest a fey he shall stalk. W-” he managed to cut himself off, hands clenched so tight blood ran down his fists. 

Deaton’s eyes were wide.

“Wi-with his fangs and with his claws, he shall- shall breach Faerie’s walls.” Derek panted, throat burning after the words had forced themselves out. “Wait, breach?”

Deaton smiled wide. 

Where the fire had been, a dirt path unfurled, clearly marked, lighter dirt than the preserve, dryer. 

“Go on.”

Derek looked at him, then the path. He stepped onto it. The world curved sharply to the side, swirling scents and sounds bombarding him. He fell to his hands and knees, clutching handfuls of plush grass. 

“Hey,” a gravelly voice yelped.

Derek looked up.

Men—creatures _like_ men with wrong features and bloodstained hats—surrounded him. A bloodied sword pointed at him.

Derek inhaled.

The blood on the sword belonged to Stiles. 

His lips curled back, fangs finally, finally sliding free. 

The creatures shared confused, then delighted, looks.

Derek lunged past the sword, claws first.


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles cradled his arm close to his chest as he walked. The cuts weren’t very deep, he didn’t think, but they still hurt, even with the help from the tree creatures. His hip throbbed with every step, and when he lifted his shirt to check it, the skin was mottled with bruises. He was pretty sure the cuts were still bleeding, too. The bandages were good, but how long would they hold up? He was so screwed. 

“Freaking faeries,” he muttered. “Freaking faeries with swords and knives.” He dropped his arm.

The sounds of a fight filled the woods, grunting and shouting, clashing metal. He hesitated, adjusting his grip on the hammer. He was way too banged up to risk another fight. He’d just give the commotion a wide berth and continue on his way at an angle. At least he had warning this time, so he could sneak around unseen. He checked around him, but the fight sounded like it was straight ahead. He decidedly turned left, veering so he could go around without straying.

A snarl cut through the woods, carrying with the shouting and pained grunts. 

Stiles hesitated. That didn’t _sound_ like a faerie noise. It sounded…like a werewolf, actually. 

Another snarl, another yowl of pain. A terrible, wet ripping sound. 

Stiles rubbed his shoulder and sighed. He followed the sounds, because he had to know. He could always sneak away if it was nothing. They would be too distracted to notice him. 

Redcaps tangled together in a vicious fight when Stiles found the source of the noise, blood spattering the ground and turning it into a field of stringy weeds. They were all attacking someone near a tree, who was snarling, clawing and biting and sustaining as many injuries as he was dishing out. 

Stiles brought his hammer back, two hands on the grip, and swung. 

The redcap in front of him collapsed. 

Stiles hit him again, then looked at Derek. “How-”

Derek ripped a redcap’s throat out and spat, then grabbed Stiles by his hurt arm, making him yelp. “Let’s go.”

Stiles twisted free, hugging his arm close. Another redcap lunged at them, but Derek clawed his throat out before he got close enough to swing. “Go _where?_ How’d you get here?”

Derek stomped on the redcap at their feet. He looked offended when he turned back to Stiles. “I’m here to _rescue_ you, so let’s go. Now.”

Stiles shook his head. “Go where?” he repeated. Had Derek been here all along? Had he already found an exit path somehow?

Derek whipped around so he was face to face with the tree at his back. 

The last redcap rose from the carnage, sword clutched in both shaking hands. 

Stiles knocked the blade aside with his hammer. 

Derek swung around and grabbed her by the throat, squeezing. 

Stiles turned away when he crushed it.

“I don’t understand. The path was right _here._ ”

“How did you get here?”

“Are you hurt?” Derek asked, frowning at him.

Stiles touched his side and realized his shirt was damp with blood. “Yeah,” he said impatiently, “maybe a little. Seriously, Derek, how’d you get here? Do you know a way out?”

“Deaton helped me open the path, but he didn’t say I’d get stuck.”

Stiles’s blood went cold. “Deaton helped you? Is he with the pack? My dad?” He gulped. “Are you sure it was Deaton?”

Derek’s gaze dropped to him, going blank with what Stiles recognized was badly concealed panic. “What do you mean?”

“There was a faerie pretending to be Deaton the last time I saw him. Did you leave him with the pack? Oh my god,” he groaned, “he’s going to eat them. Erica and Isaac are practically Hansel and Gretel waiting to happen!”

“I think that was a witch.” Derek glanced at the redcaps dubiously. “How do you know-”

Stiles waved his hands, hammer arcing dangerously close to Derek’s shoulder. “The Sight, I can see faeries even when they don’t want me to, and they—I guess they wanted me…here.” He glared at the blood on his boot. “I saw through its disguise when I was trying to ask for Deaton’s help.” He inhaled. “They concussed my dad.” 

“Why didn’t you ask us to help you protect him?”

Stiles looked up, glaring at Derek now. “When I asked for help, they injured him, so I had to do it myself.” He refused to elaborate further. 

Derek’s brows furrowed, jaw flexing. “Are you okay?”

Stiles blinked in surprise. “Since when do you let things go?”

“I’ve gotten practice in the last week,” he growled. 

_Week?_ Stiles hadn’t been gone a week…had he?

“You’re bleeding,” Derek pointed out. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, quit asking. I just need to put something on it.” 

The tree above them rustled. 

“We should start moving before the blood draws something,” Stiles muttered. “Come on.” He stepped over a leg and glanced at Derek. “Paths are one way,” he said when he found him staring at the tree. “Can’t go out the way you came in.”

Derek rolled his eyes as he joined Stiles. “Faeries,” he muttered. 

“Yep.” Stiles tapped the hammer against the side of his leg. “So…you figured out where I was.”

Derek glanced at him. “Yeah. Scott realized you were missing and all the crazy notes in your room gave it away. Deaton was harder to track down than you.”

“ _Faerie_ Deaton,” he corrected.

“Right.”

“Is my dad okay? He was banged up when I left.” His voice came out quiet, a whispered request rather than the casual question he’d meant it to be.

“Scott and Allison are watching out for him. He’s worried, but he’s okay.”

Stiles looked at him. “Thanks.”

Derek shrugged. “What’s with the scarf?”

He sighed. “I was trying to hide my face, but so far it hasn’t done me any good.” He unwound it, letting it run through his fingers. “Can you put it in my backpack?”

“Sure.”

Stiles slowed down so he could unzip the bag and tuck it away. 

“Isaac would probably like that.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.” He rubbed his eyes. He had a headache building in his temples; lights kept slow-flashing in front of him, just enough that he knew they were there, but not enough for him to follow any of them. 

Derek grunted. “There’s some noise ahead.” He flexed his hands at his sides. 

“What kind of noise?”

“Talking.” He huffed. “Food.”

“Food?”

“You know what food being cooked sounds like,” he grumbled. 

The market had buildings this time instead of stalls and stone tiles; the stores had open fronts and laden tables, with faeries milling in and out. Just beyond the stores were mansions and even a castle with spires, made of sunset orange stone and wood. The buildings somehow blended with the red and yellow trees, like they’d been there first. They might’ve. Fog hovered around their ankles.

“Autumn Court,” Stiles muttered. The air smelled of spices and copper, a weird combination that burned his nose. 

“What?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “I think this is the Autumn Court.” 

Derek grunted and wheeled in front of him, blocking his path. “What are you looking for? I have to know what we’re walking into, Stiles.”

He rubbed his forehead where the headache was gathering. “We have to find an exit path to get home. It has to be different than the one we came in.” His gaze flickered around and he lowered his voice. “Because I have the Sight, I can kind of see them, but they—it’s not coming in clearly, but they are there. I’m just hoping they’ll clear up soon so we can get home.” He jerked his shoulders. “I was hoping if I kept walking, I would find one.” 

Derek nodded slowly. “Okay.” He started walking next to Stiles again.

His fingers were numb around his hammer; they were being eyed by faeries on all sides, not by everyone, but enough that he knew they’d definitely been noticed. He elbowed Derek lightly. 

He was glowering at a hag who’d taken out a very large kitchen knife as they passed. 

“Maybe you should pull out the fangs and sideburns,” he whispered with a grin. “You’ll blend right in.”

Derek’s glower turned on him, mouth twisting in a snarl. 

Stiles smiled, opening his mouth to tease him.

“Oh, wolfie.”

They looked forward. Derek went rigid. 

Stiles looked around, but Phira’s ogre friend wasn’t visible in the crowd. 

“I found him first,” she said, glaring. She didn’t bother looking at Stiles; her eyes gleamed. 

Derek’s breath stuttered. 

“Now grab him.”

Derek locked his fingers around Stiles’s wrist, hard enough to bruise, nearly making him drop the hammer. 

“Derek,” he growled between his teeth. He put his left hand in his pocket. 

Phira sauntered closer. “ _You_ may be immune, but _he_ isn’t.”

Derek’s eyes glowed red, fingers trembling against Stiles’s wrist. Maybe she was controlling him, but he was fighting it. His hand spasmed. 

Phira reached out.

Stiles palmed a nail in his pocket. When she was close enough to touch, he whipped it at her face. 

It pierced her cheek. She screamed, clapping a hand over the injury. 

Stiles yanked his wrist free of Derek’s now-slackened grip and yanked him into a crowd of sylphs. “Don’t look back,” he ordered, pulling on Derek’s arm. He nearly lost his hammer until he switched it to his left hand. 

The faeries around them chuckled, barely parting for them, but at least they weren’t actively trying to stop them. “Are you lost, mortals?” a fey with midnight blue tusks asked. 

Stiles ignored them, scanning the crowd. They needed to find a place to hide from Phira so she couldn’t force Derek to do anything—like restrain Stiles, for instance. 

They were blocked in by shops and bodies, stuck in the crowd. 

Stiles stopped trying to squeeze his way through and switched the hammer back to his right hand. He’d just have to stop her before she could compel Derek. He cocked it over his shoulder, gulping as he looked around, sure Phira was going to pop out behind the tree faerie.

Instead, he spotted a familiar face: soft brown curls, round face…except now Hal from Lowes also had fangs resting on her lip, brown horns curling behind her head, a sword strapped across her back, and a fierce scowl. She stomped up to them, radiating fury so intense the crowd parted for her. 

Derek braced. 

Stiles adjusted his grip.

She barely glanced at his hammer. “You _stupid_ mortal.”


	17. Chapter 17

She looked different, but she was clearly the woman who’d helped Stiles at Lowes; he wasn’t mistaken. He remembered her pointing at the hammer and fire poker rather than handing them to him, her mouth twisting strangely when he thanked her, the way her gaze had been bright and wary on him—he’d thought she’d been nervous about his odd purchases. 

She was dressed in yellow and orange like a flame, her expression tired and annoyed. 

“Run,” Derek growled. 

“You run, you can be influenced.” He stepped back, hammer lifted like a baseball bat. His arms were sore. 

Hal—or whoever she really was—glanced at him, then Derek, dismissively. “I tried to keep you from coming here and yet, somehow, here you are.”

Stiles lowered his hammer. “What does that mean?” He frowned as it came to him. “You gave me the rowan berries and thistle.”

She glared at him. “Yes. And yet here you are without either.”

“They took them,” Stiles snapped. “ _And_ they went after my father.”

She frowned. “Cowards.” She shook her head. “Come with me. It isn’t safe to talk here.” 

Stiles glanced at Derek.

Hal rolled her eyes. “ _I’m_ not going to hurt you. I tried to help you.” 

Derek yelped, a stunningly vulnerable sound of shock and pain, and jerked his hand up. Blood ran down the back of it for a moment before it healed. 

The hob lunged at him again.

Hal kicked it. “Go,” she snarled. She looked at Stiles, brows raised. 

“Fine,” he muttered. 

They followed her to a mansion-sized building made of rough logs, far enough from the market that Stiles could no longer hear or smell it. He was exhausted; his legs felt like lead and the hammer was weighing him down, pulling on his arm until his wrist, elbow, and shoulder all felt like they were being very gradually separated from the rest of him. 

Hal swept through the door of the mansion and left it open for them, pacing and muttering to herself when she was inside. 

Stiles looked at Derek, but he was too drained to suggest they make a run for it. They followed her inside. They couldn’t relax yet, but at least they were away from the hungry faeries at the market. After watching her pace for a minute, Stiles asked, “Why did you try to help me? And what is going on?”

She slowed to a stop and faced him, rubbing her lip against her fangs. “You were lured here as a gift to Prince Fauriei of the Court of Ivy for the Summer Solstice.”

Stiles had a moment to ponder that, but only a moment.

“Excuse. Me?” Derek exploded. “Who do you think you are? People are not _gifts_ to be _given_ —”

“I was not involved,” Hal snapped. 

Stiles gestured at Derek to ease back. “Why would I be gifted to anyone in the first place?”

Derek scowled at him and okay, the morality of the whole thing was a problem, but the more pressing mysteries needed solving first. 

“Naturally occurring Sight is rare. It’s been generations since we found a naturally Sighted mortal anywhere near the Courts.”

“So what? I can _kind_ of see shiny lines and _kind of_ see faeries.” Stiles threw his hands up and winced when the cut on his shoulder burned. “Why does that matter?”

Hal rolled her eyes. “Mortals who develop the Sight on their own tend to sire part-faerie children more often than mortals who were given the Sight.” She nodded when they looked suitably horrified. “So you have to lay low until the party is over, and we can get you home after.”

Stiles shook his head. “No, we have to go home now. _I_ have to get home.”

“You will have to wait until after the party, then we can find you a path.”

“Find a path?” Derek echoed.

“Yes.”

Stiles stared. “But you came to our world more than once?”

“I live there sometimes. But my paths only work for Folk, not mortals.” She tucked a curl behind her ear, under one of her horns. 

Stiles frowned, feeling…strange. “Where else have I seen you?”

She shrugged. 

Derek leaned closer to Stiles. “We shouldn’t trust her,” he muttered. 

“You shouldn’t trust anyone,” she said. “But you should stay here anyway.” 

Stiles caught at Derek’s wrist blindly, squeezing to keep him quiet. “Who lured me here? And what’s your—what do I call you?”

She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. It was an incredibly human stance, and Stiles had to wonder how much time she’d spent in their world to pick it up. “I’m called Halia. And some younger Folk have been poking around, exploring the mortal realm for the first time. They noticed you react to them—you had the Sight, but clearly didn’t know it. The perfect gift for impressing a prince.” She glowered. “They wanted to be sure first. It’s stupid and childish-”

“Why all the subterfuge?” Derek cut in. He was glowering again. “Why didn’t they just compel him to come here?”

Stiles glanced at him. He said, slowly, “Because it doesn’t work on me.” He turned to Halia, blinking owlishly as things cleared in his head. “Did you do that?”

Her lip curled. “Yes,” she grumbled. 

“Why would you do that?” Derek demanded. “How? When?”

She turned her face away. She might not be able to lie, but she wasn’t forced to answer. “You can stay here until the solstice revel is over and then we’ll get moving,” she said after a long pause. 

Stiles squeezed Derek’s wrist again, nails digging in with nerves, but he didn’t react. “Why and when did you place the geas on me?”

She stiffened. “Where did you hear that word?”

Stiles figured he wanted her to talk to him, so he answered, “Kisallis.”

She muttered under her breath, then said, “That geas was placed on you the moment you took your first breath.” She tipped her head. “I wasn’t sure it would activate in time to help you, though.”

Stiles looked at his right hand, clenched around his hammer. “They made me write.” 

“They _only_ controlled your hand. They meant for you to write the notes and find them later, oblivious.”

That was what Marwin had said, too. “Why did you place the geas on me as an infant?”

She scowled. “I do not owe either of you answers.” Her eyes met Stiles’s briefly. “I need to patrol. They’re not going to give up on you easily.” She swept by, out the door and down the steps without a backward glance. 

Stiles looked at Derek. He felt dead on his feet. 

“Do you want to stay?”

“I have no idea.” His shoulders slumped, aching from the weight of his backpack. This was a lot to take in on top of everything else. 

“You’re still bleeding. We should stay until tomorrow so you can rest and maybe get more out of her. Treat your wounds.”

Stiles nodded. He was too wrung out to tease Derek about making all the decisions for him—he appreciated it, actually. His decision-making skills had landed him here, after all.

Halia returned while they were still standing there. “Nothing.” She looked them over, digging her fangs into her lip.

“We’ll stay.” Stiles could feel himself swaying but refused to drop his gaze. 

Halia nodded. “I’ve got two guest rooms-”

“No.” Derek lifted his chin. “We stay together. And we need first aid supplies. Bandages and something to clean his wounds.”

“Derek,” Stiles hissed. “Don’t—you’ll be indebted-”

“I will not be collecting anything for—for aiding you,” Halia said through her teeth.

Stiles straightened. “Why?”

Her mouth formed a snarl. “Because your mother saved my life, Stiles Stilinski, and so I owe you mine, per my agreement with her.”

Stiles’s jaw sagged. “W-what?” He looked around, as if someone might have answers that made sense. “ _What?_ ”

“That’s why she put the geas on you,” Derek murmured. 

Halia said, defeated, “There are still some mortal hunters who know of us. Claudia saved me.” She grimaced. “She couldn’t have known _what_ she was saving, but she did anyway. I owed her my life, and we take our debts seriously. When she realized the weight of what she’d done, what she _had_ , instead of asking for anything for herself, she demanded protection for you. My debt was passed to an unborn child and you had no idea for seventeen years.”

Stiles frowned. “Protection? I’ve been almost killed plenty of times.”

She rolled her eyes, losing her intensity. “I promised protection from faeries and faerie charms, not your choices. You chose werewolves.”

“They chose me,” he muttered. 

Derek shifted his weight, like he was moving closer, but he didn’t speak up.

Stiles couldn’t talk either. His mind was churning like a mixer left on high. What a terrible time to discover something about his mother. He continued to stare at Halia, because he didn’t know where else to look. He wanted the whole story. How had Claudia found her? How had she saved her and how did she know what to do? But he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t force himself to ask.

“The guest room is this way.” She led them to the left, up a flight of untreated wood stairs, and to a room with a blue door. She pushed it open.

Derek walked by, propelling Stiles forward with a light hand on his back.

“I will return with your first aid.” Halia shut the door as she left. 

The room was smallish, with a desk and armoire crammed together by the door and the bed next to a window covered by heavy blue curtains. The bed was big, bigger than Stiles’s at home, and took up most of the space. The floor seemed to be made of soft grass, which made the room smell like spring time. 

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze skimming off of things. He was confused and overwhelmed and so tired. Nothing made sense anymore. 

Derek approached, hovering uncertainly. “Take your bag off, so I can check your injuries.” 

Stiles fumbled with the straps, then, resigned, took his bloodied shirt off, too.

Derek peeled away the soaked bandage on his shoulder first, his gaze intense like he might discern the damage just by looking.

Stiles let his gaze settle on a point just over Derek’s shoulder. It felt like he could stare forever and still not quite understand how all of this had happened. “Why didn’t Mom tell me?” He didn’t really mean to say it out loud, but he couldn’t help it. If she’d have told him, he might’ve been prepared for this, for werewolves and hunters and kanimas…

“You never noticed faeries before, right? Not until recently?” He checked Stiles’s face and went on without waiting for an answer. “Maybe she hoped you’d never need Halia’s protection.” He moved to the forearm cut. 

Stiles managed a weak grin. “What do I need her for when I’ve got you?”

Derek grunted, testing the edges of the cut as if he had any idea how human injuries worked. 

Stiles grimaced and clenched his jaw, staring again so his eyes wouldn’t tear up.

A knock on the door made him jump, with only Derek’s grip on his arm keeping him from lunging for his hammer. Halia entered a second later, crossing without hesitation. She set a bucket of water on the desk, a stack of rags, and dumped an armload of bandages, wipes, and ointment beside them. She looked at the smeared blood on Stiles’s bare shoulder. “You should rest,” she said awkwardly, and left the room as quickly as she’d arrived. 

Derek moved on to the cut on Stiles’s side, prodding with gentle fingers. 

Stiles twitched, sucking in a breath. 

“Sorry, did that hurt?”

“Mm.” He clenched his hands on the blanket under his legs, trying to hold still. It _did_ hurt, in that vague way that wounds generally did. He gnawed on his lip as Derek continued to poke and prod. “Okay!” he gasped. “That’s enough, bandages now!”

Derek nodded. “I wanted to see how deep it was.”

“Ah.”

He grabbed the rags and wet them, but before he could try wiping Stiles down like a messy toddler, he snatched it. 

“You just—just prepare the bandages,” he mumbled, wiping roughly at his bloodied shoulder. He got as much of the smeared blood off as he could, scrubbing at where it’d dried with great prejudice. 

It was hard to hold still while Derek taped the bandages down, both because it hurt and because Stiles was ticklish, which made for a confusing mixture of sensations. He jumped up as soon as Derek taped down the last bandage on his side. “I’m gonna change. Thanks.” He snatched his backpack and scrambled to the other side of the room—the most privacy he was going to get. He changed into the green outfit, which had no rips or mud on it yet. He rubbed the loose sleeves between his fingers. Still unbelievably soft. The boots went back on, even for sleep. He draped the black pants over the chair at the desk, then turned back.

Derek was studying the rips in the fabric of Stiles’s shirt.

“Hey.” He smiled weakly when Derek looked up. “Thank you for coming after me.”

“We look out for each other.” He licked his lips. “I was, uh,” he cleared his throat, “worried you’d get trapped.”

Stiles said, “Yeah, me too,” with a mirthless laugh.

Derek nodded at the bed. “Get some sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

He was too tired to argue, so he climbed on the bed, yanked the blankets down, and curled under them. 

Derek sat on the other side, back braced against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles. 

Stiles pressed his cheek down on the cool pillow. He could feel himself relaxing; his injuries were still painful, but they were clean and covered, the bed was cool and comfortable, and… He yawned. He was right, before. He did feel better with Derek watching his back.


	18. Chapter 18

Derek stayed awake while Stiles slept; he didn’t feel tired yet, although he was sure he would crash soon. For now, he was wired with adrenaline and paranoia. The room stayed at a dim, late evening light level the whole time they’d been there. 

Stiles looked exhausted, curled in a small, defensive ball, one hand fisted like the smallest noise would rouse him, ready to fight. 

He looked away, frustrated all over again that Stiles hadn’t asked for help, even though he understood why. If he had family left, he’d try to protect them at all costs, too. He was glad he got here at all, even if he was stuck now. 

_A gift,_ he thought, mouth twisting in disgust. _A gift_ for a faerie prince. He looked down when Stiles sighed in his sleep. He pulled the single iron nail out of his pocket, twisting it between his fingers. They needed to get out of here. He could be compelled by faeries to do their bidding, which meant—he looked down at Stiles’s wrist where he’d grabbed him, the bruises gradually rising to the surface. 

He sighed, dropping his head back against the wall. At least Stiles had the sense to pack supplies before coming here, even though he’d dropped the fire poker. Derek couldn’t tease him about that, either, because he hadn’t brought anything at all, except the nail and his phone.

He rubbed his eyes. He should’ve thought this through better. He should’ve realized something was off with Deaton, should’ve told the pack to be on alert. Should’ve confronted Stiles about his clearly strange behavior long before it got to this. 

Stiles’s legs shifted under the blankets; he jolted, then his eyes opened slowly. He blinked heavily. “Weirdo vampire,” he mumbled like he had a mouthful of marbles. “Watchin’ me sleep.” He sat up and rubbed his face, losing a fight to a fierce yawn. “Ugh. My dreams are all vivid and weird.” 

Derek rubbed his thumb against the nail. “You should’ve come to us for help,” he said, because he never knew when to let something go.

Stiles groaned, slumping against the wall next to him.

“I mean it. We teased you, but we would help if you needed it.”

Stiles twisted to glare at him, the grogginess cleared from his eyes by anger. He was always making full, direct eye contact when he wanted to stand up to Derek. It was always right before he started insulting or yelling at him, too. “ _You_ told me I didn’t need to be there. Why should I have asked you for help?”

Derek flushed, cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment, staring at this kid who was clearly scared but who was always brave anyway. However much he complained. He sighed. “I was getting ridiculed and undermined in front of my betas, okay?” He rubbed his jaw, uncomfortable with his own honestly. “I reacted. I shouldn’t have, but I can only take so much and I’d already been trying to get them to listen to me for a couple hours by then.”

Stiles finally dropped his gaze, lost in thought. He inhaled noisily. “Okay,” he said simply. 

Derek stared. He did not understand him.

Stiles twisted his fingers together in his lap. “I wasn’t trying to undermine _you_ , just your teaching methods.”

Derek laughed, shocked, and Stiles smiled. 

“I want them to learn, I want to help.”

“Of course you do,” he sighed. 

Stiles reared back, rising up like a cobra preparing to strike. 

“I mean, I’ve _noticed._ I’ve noticed you—you help Scott, and your dad, and you’re trying to help us, even when I’m doing a bad job or Isaac and Jackson are being shitty to you—it tracks.” He stopped. Glowered at the wall across from them. “I guess I could be doing a better job. But-” He sighed. 

Stiles looked at him, but he refused to turn. “You don’t know how?” He grinned. 

Derek huffed and made himself nod.

Stiles abruptly went serious, grin fading. “Listening to advice and asking for help isn’t weakness.” He plucked at the edge of his shirt, like he’d been talking to himself as much as Derek.

“I know, but applying that logic is difficult. I’m sure you know that, too.”

Stiles laughed. “Yeah.”

Derek grumbled, “Lydia is implementing training sessions that include education so you all know what other creatures are out there.”

“Hmm, seems like that would’ve been smart weeks ago, dude.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Hindsight.” He braced when Stiles’s eyes lit with either humor or challenge, and then…

Stiles backed down, shoulders slumping again. He stared thoughtfully at his lap. “At least you’re doing it now.”

“ _We’re_ doing it now.” If Stiles could be sincere, so could he. Maybe the air here was making them drunk. “It is abundantly clear that we need you there _and_ that you need to be there. Even if Scott won’t come.”

Stiles scowled. “I figured out a lot about faeries by myself, I’m not completely helpless. I survived in here on my own so far.”

Derek didn’t know how to explain it to him. He felt responsible for him, and, in general, he liked having him around, even when he was being a dick. It made things interesting, at least. “The whole pack has to attend training,” is what he said.

Stiles’s mouth curled. “So I’m going to werewolf summer school?”

“You’re going to _pack_ summer school.”

He smiled.

Derek looked away, down at the nail he was still fiddling with. “You need to sleep some more. You barely slept at all.”

“Yeah.” Stiles stretched his shoulders before scooting down again. He curled up once more, but closer this time, and after he was fully asleep, he relaxed further, letting the back of his hand rest against Derek’s leg.

Derek stared at the almost delicate joints, the callouses on his fingers and palms, bruises on his wrist. Trust. Derek wasn’t sure if he’d earned it yet, but he could try.


	19. Chapter 19

Pain throbbed deep in his shoulder. When Stiles woke enough to think, he realized the pain was in his right shoulder, not the left where the gashes from the redcaps were. His whole arm felt stiff and uncomfortable, wedged up under his head. He slowly, slowly pulled it down, gritting his teeth. Stupid hammer. He rolled onto his back, straightening out and stretching to loosen his muscles. At least he wasn’t that tired anymore. He could lay here for hours, he reflected, lounging in this comfortable bed, resting his sore muscles and injuries. But who knew how much time was passing in the mortal realm? What would the fake Deaton be doing to the pack while they were here? He sat up, digging his fingers into his sore shoulder and trying to massage the muscle. He opened his eyes. He flinched, squinting to block out the worst of the beam. 

There were crisscrossing lines filling the room, glowing so bright that he couldn’t see past them, couldn’t tell one from another. He threw his hand out blindly, flapping around for his hammer.

Another hand wrapped around his, fingers clasping tightly around his palm. “What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice was gravelly from his sleepless night.

Stiles went still. He tried not to flex his fingers, even though he desperately wanted to. “I, um. I can’t see.” The lights pulsed, the brightness intensifying until he felt like he was staring into the sun and yet he couldn’t look away.

Derek’s grip tightened, drawing him closer like he could physically shield him from the lights. 

Stiles swallowed. _I am not going to have a crisis over a man holding my hand._ He closed his eyes, then forced them open. The lights dimmed somewhat, although they were still bright enough to make his eyes water. He squeezed Derek’s hand accidentally as he braced himself; he looked at the lights, trying to differentiate the colors, until the intensity faded further. He exhaled. “The paths,” he grumbled. 

“What?”

He cleared his throat and gestured with his free hand. “The lights—I’m seeing a bunch of bright, colorful lines that I’m guessing are paths.” He sighed, rubbing his eye where a headache was brewing. “I don’t know what the colors mean or which one will lead us home.” He traced the lines with his eyes, now that he could see them individually. A purple one went straight through the bed, silver through the closet, red through Derek’s chest and into the wall, a black one out the door. Stiles covered his face with both hands, finally letting go of Derek. “Ugh.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to force the pain away. There was too much to do to deal with a headache. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, my eyes just hurt.” He dropped his hands. “I have to use the bathroom.” He glared around the room, but there clearly wasn’t one attached. 

“Let’s go find it.” Derek swung his legs off the bed, rubbing his jaw. He yawned as he stood, stretching until his back popped. 

Stiles scooped up his backpack and hammer. His shoulders throbbed. 

“I can carry that for you.”

Stiles shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d rather have all my supplies on me than risk losing them if we get separated.”

Derek made a face. 

“It could happen.” He stepped into the hall and looked left and right, but there were only two other doors.

A fruitless search left them tramping downstairs with increasing desperation.

Halia was sitting with her sword across her lap, facing the door. When they asked about toilets, she gestured at the foliage outside.

Stiles had never hated anything more. “If we end up in another state because of the paths, we are getting a hotel. I’m sick and tired of this stupid no-bathrooms thing, and I smell.”

“You always smell.”

“Gee, thanks.” Stiles kicked a rock at him as they headed back to Halia’s house. They’d each chosen…a spot as far from each other as possible but Derek had waited for Stiles in the front yard. 

Halia met them at the door with two rags and two bars of soap with flowers worked into them. “There are basins of water in the room you slept in if you’d like to clean up.”

“I would,” Stiles sniffed. “Not that it’ll help much, apparently.” 

Halia looked politely confused. 

Stiles shook his head. 

After they’d cleaned up, they trooped back downstairs to find Halia holding two enormous fast food bags. 

Stiles stared at the Burger King logo.

She shrugged. “I thought you would be more comfortable eating food from your own realm while you could.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay.” They settled at the table she showed them to. He wanted, once more, to pepper her with questions, but he couldn’t imagine where to begin. “Did—did you know my mom?”

She leveled him with a long look.

He flushed. “After she saved your life,” he clarified. “After your deal.”

She shook her head slowly. “I would…check in on you occasionally, but only to ensure none of my fellows were interfering with you.” She frowned at the table. “I am not a good source of comfort or memories about her.” She shrugged. “She showed me kindness and mercy when it mattered most. That is all I know.”

Stiles nodded, filling his mouth with fries so he couldn’t speak. He’d known that, really, but he’d hoped…

Derek watched him, shoulders tense. 

He didn’t want pity or concern. He wiped salt from his fingers. “We can’t stay here until the summer solstice. It isn’t happening.”

Halia scowled. “You should. Searching for a path now is just going to get you caught.”

“I have to get home and he,” he pointed at Derek, “has a pack to get back to.” He chugged from the bottle of water she’d brought them. It felt like he hadn’t had a drink in days. 

“What is a couple more nights?” Halia demanded, brow creasing. “You won’t return home faster if you’re caught and must be rescued. Or it will take that long to find a path anyway.”

“That’s the point. If we wait, and then it takes days to find a path, that’s double what it would be if we searched now.” 

She frowned like she was trying to make sense of that. “Yes,” she said, drawing the word out, “but if you get captured, that will add _more_ time to your escape, possibly even preventing it completely.”

“We’re going,” Derek said flatly before Stiles could try reasoning with her.

Her eyes narrowed. “You-” She jerked around.

Beside him, Derek went tense, head lifting.

Halia snatched her sword from the chair beside her and lunged for the door.

Stiles jumped up to follow her, catching himself on the door before he could topple down the porch steps. 

Outside, Halia was engaging a group of about nine redcaps.

“Wait in here,” Derek ordered as he shoved past to help.

Stiles scoffed and ran back for his hammer before he followed them out.

Halia wielded her sword with deadly accuracy and ruthlessness; Stiles tried to stay as far from her as possible. 

He found himself fighting next to Derek, swinging with all his strength. Beside him, Derek ripped and tore through flesh, spattering blood over bright green grass. Bone crunched under Stiles’s hammer. 

Derek snarled quietly and lunged, fluid and inhuman, at a redcap. He grunted when its sword pierced his arm.

Stiles twisted to help.

A blade glanced across his leg, high up.

He hissed, dropping back automatically.

Derek kicked the redcap in the chest, then pounced on her while she was down.

Stiles turned away. 

A wet rip. Derek touched his arm a second later. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it barely got me.”

Halia hovered over the last two redcaps, her hair wild, covered in blood, a bright, excited gleam in her eyes. 

They glared up at her, disarmed and wounded. 

Halia angled her sword, breathing hard. “You tell Mivian I’m coming. Tell her she is done.”

They blinked up at her. Glanced at each other, then back up.

She growled and, with a move too fast for Stiles to see, cut one of their heads off. “ _Okay?_ ” 

The remaining redcap watched his companion’s head bounce away, his face spattered with fresh blood. He nodded. 

“Go,” Halia ordered. 

He ran.

She turned to them, sword still aloft. “See?”

Stiles plucked at the blood-stained fabric of his pants. “We can’t just wait around. They obviously know I’m here anyway.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Get your things, I need to change.” 

Stiles grabbed his bag and their cold leftovers, tucking them away to snack on later. Derek twitched next to him, alternately glaring out the window and pacing toward the hall where Halia had disappeared. 

She returned wearing a deep blue and silver outfit, her hair twisted back under her horns. Her sword was strapped across her back again. “Let’s go. If we’re going, we’ll go through the market.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to find a path. Perhaps I can bribe someone to help us.” She frowned thoughtfully. “If anyone attacks us, we will just kill them.”

Stiles twisted to grin at Derek. “Oh my god,” he breathed, “you’re the same person.”

Derek shoved him out the door.

The Autumn Court market was more vibrant than the other one, now that Stiles had a chance to look. The air was light with fresh fruit, high pitched chatter, and the tinkling of bells. There were plenty of faeries everywhere, perusing the wares, bartering, carrying purchases in wrapped parcels. 

“It is for the revels,” Halia explained. “Clothes and masks and accessories for the Folk who cannot have them custom made. Usually it is not this crowded, but we love a chance to show off.” She smiled to herself. 

“I’ll say.” Stiles peered at a mask with three faces. 

Halia huffed. “I would say the revels are enjoyable, except when you’ve been kidnapped for them.”

Stiles snorted. “I doubt it.”

She looked offended. 

“You!” A smallish fey with a blue hat and black beard pointed a damning finger at Halia. “You stole from my stall last night.”

Halia swung around to face him. “What did you say?”

“You stole plums and a dagger, I saw you, thieving wench.”

She drew up, eyes blazing.

Stiles grimaced. Music drifted over the bells, but it didn’t affect him at all this time. It was enjoyable when it wasn’t trying to hypnotize him.

“Apologize,” Halia ordered. 

“Return what you stole, thief!”

“I am no thief. I will do no such thing.” Halia drew her sword.

Stiles sighed. “You know, if she’d just _say_ she didn’t steal anything—it isn’t like she can lie-” He looked to Derek, but he wasn’t next to Stiles like he’d thought. His heart lurched. He turned in place, but he wasn’t behind him, or by the masks or-

Derek was several stalls down, dancing to the music with a group of exhausted, enchanted mortals.

_Idiot,_ Stiles berated himself, shoving past a cluster of faeries. Werewolves _were_ mortal, supernatural or not. Phira had already proven Derek could be charmed, why hadn’t he thought of the music working on him? “Move,” he snarled viciously enough that a creature with long feathery wings jumped out of the way. 

Derek spun past, his face eerily blissful, overcome with joy.

Stiles waited until he circled back to catch his arm. “No, we’re done.” He dug his heels in, but enchanted or not, Derek was still stronger than him. 

He laughed and dragged Stiles into the dance, swinging him in a jaunty circle. He spun and dipped him, then yanked him back up into a smacking kiss.

Stiles froze all over, then yanked back, sputtering.

Derek just laughed, eyes glazed, hands resting too warm on Stiles’s waist. 

Stiles kicked his shins. Hard. 

He yelped, the haze clearing from his eyes. 

Stiles grasped his wrist firmly and dragged him away; this time, thankfully, he allowed it. Stiles’s whole face burned, the back of his neck prickling, his lips tingling. 

Derek was as bright red in the face as Stiles imagined he was, eyes huge. “Stiles—I’m—that was ina—I’m sorry-”

“Faerie music can make mortals act strange,” he cut in quickly, almost too casual. “Just forget it. We have to find Halia.” He could still hear the music and wondered how long they had before it called Derek back. Should he make Derek hold a nail in his mouth? Would that work on a werewolf? 

They found Halia searching for them, rumpled and bloodied but victorious if her grin was anything to go by. 

Derek shuddered, twisting his neck to stare back at where the music was. Then, resolved, he plugged his ears with his fingers like a child; Stiles couldn’t help smiling. 

Halia didn’t look twice. “Let’s move along so your friend can relax. I cannot find anyone who is willing to help us with the paths,” she said bluntly. 

“Oh, really? But you’re so charming.”

“Not particularly, and my mother was human, so they’re unfriendly.” She glanced sideways at him. “Oh. Sarcasm,” she sighed. 

Stiles shrugged. The music was fading, but Derek would hear it better than him, even at a distance, so he didn’t tell him it was safe yet. 

“There are so many possible paths that you could end up somewhere far from home, or even somewhere in Faerie, or another realm altogether if we choose the wrong one.” Halia stared ahead so intensely that the crowd parted for them as they walked. “Your friend is safe now,” she added. “The music will not affect him here.”

Stiles waved at Derek to get his attention and gestured at his own ears. 

Derek dropped his arms. 

“What do the colors mean?” he asked Halia.

She frowned. “What?”

“The different colors of paths, what do they mean?” He gestured to his left, where the orange path shimmered as they walked. 

Halia followed his hand. “You…can…see them?”

“Only sometimes. Someone told me that people with the Sight can see them, only I don’t know what they mean or where they lead. Or how to make them appear again once they fade.”

She nodded, her face troubled. “I don’t know what the colors mean either or how it works, but I know someone who will.”

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who shrugged. 

“The problem,” Halia said anxiously, “is that she is in the Court of Ivy.” 

Stiles rubbed his face. “Will going to her get us home?”

“Quicker than me.”

“And it’s better than wandering around aimlessly,” Derek pointed out. 

“Okay. Court of Ivy it is.” Home of the faerie prince he was meant to be gifted to. He glanced at Derek, who looked worried, and made himself smile a little.

Derek just looked back, brows creased. 

Stiles didn’t mind. His mood and outlook about this whole thing had improved by tenfold with Derek’s presence. Not being alone in this…it was better.   



	20. Chapter 20

Halia led them through the market and a densely packed wood, into what she called the Stone Forest. It was accurate, Stiles realized as soon as they reached it. Behind them were the soaring, leafy trees of Faerie, odd but basically what Stiles expected of a world of faeries. The Stone Forest was exactly what the name said: everything was made of stone, rocks, and gems. The “trees” had branches and roots made of twisting crystals, the ground was bumpy black, gray, and brown. There was no foliage and the only green around were boulders that Stiles was pretty sure were made of emerald. 

There were towering, sharp rocks of all colors, short rock piles, steep falls and wide trails. Stiles’s neck hurt from craning and twisting around to look at everything. A long, brown-red stone hung over them in a half-arch, with black gems jutting out of the sides. Red trailed from the end like a tail of fire. He couldn’t help brushing his fingers over one of the black gems; it was cold and rough, jagged under his hand. He pressed his palm to it.

Chlorine wafted to his nose, the smell of sunscreen and the sound of laughter, a splash of pool water to the face. He jerked back.

Halia glanced at him. “Coming?”

He pulled his hand away. “Yes…”

Derek lifted a brow, but he didn’t ask—he had other things on his mind.

Stiles rubbed his arms. Despite the dim sunlight, the Stone Forest was chilly, and he was dressed for summer. 

“Who are we going to see?” Derek asked, stepping over a pulsating white gem. It was formed in spikes with a light in the center, giving off a fragrance like sweet flowers. 

Stiles leaned over to sniff.

Derek caught his backpack and tugged. 

He made a face at him as he caught up. He wasn’t going to _touch it._ Not yet, anyway.

“The Spider,” Halia replied calmly. 

Stiles mouthed, “The _Spider,_ ” at Derek, brows raised, and got swatted for his efforts. He just didn’t think he wanted help from someone called the Spider, or maybe he just wanted to investigate all of the glowing, pulsing, shuddering gems around them. One bright yellow stone to their left was tapered, spearing toward the sky like a weapon, and Stiles wanted to see how sharp it was.

“Who is the Spider?” Derek pressed. 

Stiles felt a little weird. Shouldn’t he be asking the questions? He looked up, staring at the blue sky until his eyes burned. He was just hungry. 

“She is someone who knows about the paths because she knows a little about a lot.”

Derek glowered. 

“That doesn’t tell us much,” Stiles pointed out. “Is she going to turn us over to whoever is after me? Or try to take me herself?”

Halia shook her head. “She doesn’t care about the Sight, or mortals, or the Courts. And I am bound to ensure she does you no harm.” She smirked. “Mivian fears her.”

Stiles figured that was the best reassurance they were going to get.

Derek glared at the back of Halia’s head. He still had blood from the redcaps smeared on the side of his neck and his shirt, a rip on the side from a sword or knife. He looked tired, even for him.

“What’s the pack doing while you’re here?”

“What?” he snapped. 

“The pack. Did you give them anything to do while you’re on Stiles-rescue duty?” He kicked at a pebble, sending it rolling off their trail. “I hope they’re not with fake Deaton.”

Derek shook his head. “They were sleeping when I left.”

Stiles tripped over a clump of blue gems and accidentally smacked Derek’s arm with the hammer trying to catch himself. He batted Derek’s hands away when he tried to help steady him. “Excuse me? You didn’t even tell them you were coming?”

“They knew. They just fell asleep at the loft while we were waiting for dawn—except Jackson.”

Stiles frowned. “They were _all_ at the loft?”

Derek’s cheeks pinked up; he turned forward. “They had to help me get ingredients for the bathing ritual I had to do to come here. They fell asleep while I was…soaking.”

Halia barked a laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” Derek demanded. 

She looked back at them. “There is no _bathing_ ritual. What were you told to do?”

He set his jaw. “I had to soak in a hot bath with herbs for two hours.” He listed off the herbs. 

Halia’s laughter bubbled over, rendering her useless, while Stiles tried to figure out why those ingredients sounded so familiar.

He sucked his lips into his mouth as he realized, but a snicker escaped before he could stop it.

Derek whipped toward him. “What?” he growled. 

He finally laughed. “Those—are the spices I use for chicken soup.”

Derek snarled, which was just his way of dealing with mortification.

Stiles laughed more; he could just imagine Derek, expression surly, sinking into a bathtub of soup. “I already told you it wasn’t the real Deaton, how did you not make this connection?” 

He glared. 

Halia wiped her eyes. “Ah. It’s a common trick, making things more complicated than they need to be to buy time.” She smiled toothily at Derek. “I am sure you smelled delicious.”

Stiles covered his mouth to stifle his helpless giggles. 

Derek bared his teeth at both of them. 

They stopped not long after that so they could eat what little Stiles had left from Marwin and what Halia had brought them that morning. She scouted around, scaling tall rocks to look at the trail ahead, to watch for threats. Stiles picked at a cold, unappetizing pile of fries. Halia had said she would get mortal food for them as soon as she could, but that could mean anything. They were running out of water, too, but there were streams nearby that they could use, according to Halia. 

“Was Scott…Did Scott help?” he blurted. He braced.

Derek nodded. “Yeah. He was asleep with the others when I left.”

“At your loft? With the pack?”

He smirked a little. “It surprised me, too.”

Stiles nodded. It was a good thing. Not exactly the way he expected to get Scott to bond with the pack, but it was working. Good. That was exactly his goal. He felt Derek watching and bolstered himself. “See? I knew he’d come around. Soon he’ll join your pack for real and that’ll settle things.” He didn’t muse aloud about where that would leave him—it seemed so self-centered. Obviously, he’d just…go back to his human friends, who were significantly less likely to accidentally break him while goofing off. Plus, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t be _friends_ with Scott or even the rest of them. They’d just have a rotation of hang-out-with-Stiles time in between him hanging out with his human friends. 

It wasn’t like he barely had anything to talk to other humans about anymore, or anything in common to share. He frowned at his lap. They could start fresh. _Hi, I’m Stiles, and I’m resistant to faerie charms. Wanna see the scar I got while I was trapped in Faerieland?_

He was sure he’d make loads of friends. He felt Derek watching him again. “Hey, at least the pack rallies like champs when there’s an emergency, right?”

“Right…Are you okay?”

Stiles shrugged. 

Derek’s brows furrowed. 

Before he could press further, Stiles tossed a pebble at him. “Hey, you’ve got some pretty good dance moves. Do a lot of clubbing in New York?” He shimmied in place, and chose to believe Derek’s expression of horror was actually envy. “You could probably get us some faerie money with those moves.”

He shook his head, still mortified. His hands fluttered up in a weirdly delicate move before clenching in his lap. “I—Stiles—I’m sorry for, uh, grabbing you. And your, um. Mouth.”

“You’re sorry for grabbing me and my _mouth?_ ” Stiles couldn’t help the maniacal giggles if he tried. 

Derek shook his head, hands still clenched in his lap, teeth gritted. 

Stiles sniffled. “Aha, that’s amazing. Look, I already told you, the music…does things.” He shrugged and couldn’t _quite_ look Derek in the face. “It doesn’t matter.”

Derek wasn’t looking up either, frowning hard at his clenched hands as if they might be able to erase the moment.

That wasn’t happening. Stiles sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking at the rocks around them. There was something to see in every direction, really, gemstones and formations he couldn’t have fathomed before. Under his hands, the rock was gritty with finely ground stone and dirt, tiny sparkling gems. A breeze drifted by, cooling his flushed face. 

Derek sighed. 

Stiles looked at him.

“They’ll be angry at me for not waking them.”

He snorted. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Sometimes I can’t.” He shifted his boots against the ground. “I don’t want my pack to hate me,” he admitted under his breath, “but I’d rather that than a dead pack.”

Stiles sat up slowly, as if being outwardly calm could hide how hard his heart was beating. He didn’t know how to handle this. 

Derek glanced at him and away, scowling at a deep blue jewel. “You all act like I’m doing it for fun.”

“You do seem to get a certain enjoyment out of knocking them around.” Stiles shrugged. “You like to show off, a lot of people do.”

“Like you?”

“Yes.” He brushed dirt off his knee. “Just…channel _that_ energy into showing them what to do.”

“I’m _trying._ ” 

Stiles nodded. “Okay.”

Derek looked like he wanted to say something.

Halia leaped from her perch. She landed between them, sword held aloft. “Let’s move along now.”

Stiles sighed. “Yeah, fine.”

Derek helped him to his feet while eyeing Halia’s sword. 

“You go ahead. Keep following this trail.” She pointed. “I want to speak to Stiles alone.”

“No.” His voice wasn’t aggressive or even really firm—just “No” like she’d asked if he liked cantaloupe. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

Stiles looked between the two of them, then elbowed Derek lightly. When he glared at him, Stiles glared right back. “Just go. You’ll still be able to see us.” _And hear us,_ he was trying to imply. He tilted his head. 

Derek seemed to get the message and eased back. “Fine.” He walked away and stopped out of human hearing range, but Stiles knew from unfortunate experience that he most definitely hear if Stiles even _muttered_ that he needed help.

Halia, for her part, looked Stiles up and down. “The music only makes mortals happy. It does not make them amorous.” 

Stiles glared up at her, every part of him flushing red. He steadfastly _refused_ to look toward Derek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through his teeth.

She shrugged. “Think about it.”

“I will not. Did your oath to my mother include giving me kiss-related advice?” he hissed, darting an involuntary, paranoid glance at Derek.

Halia rolled her eyes. “No. Stubborn child.” She swept past him, stalking up the incline where Derek was; he looked unconcerned which led Stiles to believe he somehow hadn’t heard what they were discussing. 

Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek. Halia wasn’t reading the situation right; he’d never seen a purely happy Derek, he told himself, and maybe happy Derek was extremely physically affectionate. It wasn’t even like the kiss was romantic or flirty. A smacking of lips, brief, friendly. 

“Stiles?” Derek called. 

Stiles caught up to them. He needed to focus on going home, where everything would go back to normal.


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles scuffed his boot. The trail underfoot didn’t change. He was getting a little tired of flat gray stone, despite the bright gleam of gems to break up the landscape. His feet and legs hurt, and his injuries were throbbing almost as much as when he’d first gotten them. It was warmer than it had been when they’d started in the Stone Forest; it would’ve been tolerable if they weren’t heading up a bumpy incline that had Stiles puffing for breath and beyond flushed. Sweat matted his hair down, had the thin clothes Marwin had given him sticking to his chest and back in the worst way. 

Derek looked slightly flushed, his hair standing in little spikes from where he’d been pushing at it, and Halia didn’t seem to notice things like the temperature.

Stiles’s exhausted gaze roamed over a spiral of gray stones, twisting into the sky and out of sight. There was a circle of grapefruit-pink gems around the base of it, twinkling in the sun that Stiles still couldn’t quite locate in the sky. Shadows went in all directions here, and sometimes they disappeared altogether despite the bright, relentless light. 

Derek and Halia waited at the crest of the hill for Stiles to catch up.

He glared, wiping his eyes. He needed better, less supernatural friends. And water. More water would be good, at a time like this. “Oh, thank god,” he blurted when he caught up.

There were blankets of algae on the rocks on this side of the hill, burbling streams pouring down the rocks, shady spots that looked enticing.

Derek clamped a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Is it drinkable?” He looked at Halia. 

She nodded. 

Stiles squirmed out of Derek’s grasp and dropped to his knees next to a sixteen-foot-tall pile of black rocks. A stream cut down the center of it, creating a little river downhill when it reached the ground. He cupped his hands and drank like a kid in the backyard, slurping noisily from his palms, handfuls at a time until his throat no longer felt like sandpaper. He rubbed his chilled, damp hands over his face, his neck and head, then sat back on his heels, panting. 

Derek crouched next to him. “Got a bottle we can fill?”

He nodded and flapped a hand at his backpack vaguely. He was too sore to pull the bag off, open it, and dig around. He needed to not do anything for just a minute.

Derek got the hint.

While he was rooting around, Stiles rubbed his cheeks with more water, trying to cool himself off. 

Halia sighed noisily behind them. 

Stiles looked up at the sky, eyes narrowed against the light, wherever it was coming from. He wanted to go home and do nothing for an entire week. Everyone could muddle through without him while he got reacquainted with his bed, indoor plumbing, and central air conditioning. 

“Let’s go.” Halia nudged his boot with her toe.

He wanted to bite her. 

Derek stood, capping the bottle. 

Stiles groaned as he got to his feet. “I never want to walk this much again.” 

“You tread water for two-” Derek began.

“No.” Stiles pointed sharply at his face. “No.”

He blinked at him, going cross-eyed trying to look at Stiles’s finger. “Okay.”

“I am never doing any physical activity again.” He flung his hands in the air and stomped away. 

Halia caught up easily enough. “We’re getting close, I have to talk to you both.” She looked over at Derek, then Stiles. “Don’t speak to her directly. Let me do the bargaining and the talking.”

Stiles glanced up at her—had she been that much taller than him in the mortal realm?—and frowned. “Why?”

Derek was walking just a step behind them, almost close enough to step on Stiles’s heels. 

Halia didn’t look at him. “If she asks you any questions, do not answer them.” Her gaze went distant. “Perhaps you should wait outside.”

“No,” Derek snapped. “We want to hear what’s said.”

She glared over her shoulder at him. “Fine.” She looked Stiles over from head to toe. Then she sighed. 

It wasn’t long before Halia grew tense, shoulders stiffening. She turned off the trail and clambered around a pile of red stones the size of Stiles’s fist. She held her arm out, stopping Stiles from going further. 

The lair was small, a mound of polished back stone draped in moss, barely taller than Halia and clearly only one room, shallow unless it dug into the ground. Stiles could see where it began and ended from his angle without straining. The door was a deep green curtain of living moss. Halia knocked on the stone next to it, three sharp raps of her knuckles that echoed oddly.

“Enter.”

Halia looked back at them. 

Derek stared back, stone-faced. 

She sighed and held the moss aside. 

It smelled like overripe fruit inside, damp moss, and dirt, and it was too dark to see at first. 

Stiles blinked hard as his eyes adjusted. He jolted and jerked back—he didn’t make it far. He bumped solidly into Derek’s chest, barely an inch from where he’d started. 

The Spider was long limbed and pale, looming and glowing in the dark, with a youthful face and four endless indigo eyes. She had pale, web-like hair and six long, long limbs. She folded her uppermost hands together and smiled, two slow, deliberate movements. “Halia,” she said in a strange, resonant voice. “You’ve brought your master.”

Stiles stiffened, only reassured when Derek dropped a hand on his uninjured shoulder. He wasn’t alone, at least. 

Halia snarled. 

The Spider laughed. “Only a joke.” She waved her lower left hand and moved her gaze to Derek, roving over him in an indulgent, unhurried way, taking him all in. Then she looked at Stiles, eyes traveling from his bruised, filthy face to his gifted boots. “You need something from me.”

“I do,” Halia said, chin raised. “I want to know-”

“Not you.” She didn’t even look at her. “You don’t need anything from me. He does.” She pointed at Stiles. 

“Well, you’ve said yourself that I owe him a life debt. What he needs, I acquire.”

The Spider smiled. “Not this.”

Stiles shuddered. He looked sideways at Derek. 

“I have no need to compel you, mortals. And, I suspect, I could not compel you if I wanted to,” she said to Stiles, sliding a sly smile at Halia, who remained silent. The Spider leaned forward, spreading all four of her hands in front of her. “What is it you want, mortal?”

Derek tensed.

Halia’s mouth pressed in a thin white line, jaw ticking, fangs digging into the skin under her lip.

“I need to know the price before I ask,” he said cautiously. 

The Spider’s head cocked. Her hair slipped over her shoulder, rustling against the floor of her den like dry leaves. “A compromise?”

He lifted his brows. 

“You ask your question. I will tell you my price. If you do not wish to pay it, you will go on your way freely but without answers.” 

“All three of us?”

She smiled widely like he’d surprised her. “Yes, I will allow all three of you to leave.”

Stiles couldn’t help glancing at Halia; it seemed safe to him, but he wasn’t sure of all the rules here.

Halia’s eyes were blazing, her entire body rigid. She didn’t want him to agree. 

He looked to his other side.

Derek looked furious, his face cold, arms stiff at his sides, claws out.

Neither of them had faith in him. Cool. They weren’t offering alternatives either, so he was going to have to decide on his own. He looked at the Spider and nodded.

She smiled.

He swallowed against his dry throat. “I have the Sight and can see colored paths. I need to know what the colors mean and which one will guide us home.”

Halia relaxed; Stiles figured that meant he’d phrased it right.

Derek did not relax. 

The Spider hummed. “For that,” she said at last, “my price will be a secret. A secret,” she added, “you do not plan to share, a secret you’ve kept so well it is but a faint stirring even to yourself, a whisper you’ve tried to ignore.”

Stiles frowned. If it was a secret to him as well, how could he give it to her? He glanced at Derek and Halia, unsure, but they were blank faced, as if they hadn’t heard. 

“You must make the decision yourself.” She licked her lips with a forked tongue. “The secret I desire will present itself to you when I’ve given you your answer. Do you agree?”

Did he agree? A secret he kept even from himself? Admitted, spoken to life in front of witnesses? His heart hammered. He couldn’t fathom what secret would come forth as payment, but he had to get home. “And you will give me the answer to my question if I agree?” he clarified. 

“Yes. I swear,” she added solemnly, eyes glittering.

He swallowed again, licking his lips. “Okay,” he rasped, “I agree.”

Derek finally moved, but only to turn a frown on Stiles. 

The Spider clapped all of her hands. “Good, we agree. The paths, you say? Hm.” She paused to think, her eyes going full yellow for a moment. She smiled. “Ahhh, here we are.” She drew herself up. “Black is the path of fortunes untold, indigo is for the bold. Orange may lead you to your fate, but silver is for those who wait. Purple takes a travelers’ toll, red sees into the roaming soul. Blue is for collecting debts owed, while green marks the unwalked road.”

Stiles blinked. “Ex-excuse me?”

She patiently repeated the little rhyme.

“That _isn’t_ an answer,” Stiles gritted out.

“It is if you listen.” She bared her teeth. “Pay up.”

Stiles stared at her. What was he supposed to do with that? He could barely remember what she’d said already. How was he supposed to get home now? He’d screwed up-

Halia spoke, her voice silken. “You agreed to _give_ the boy his answer.”

The Spider’s gaze snapped to her. “Yes…?”

“So _give_ him the answer.”

She growled but, to Stiles’s surprise, manifested a piece of paper in her hand. The rhyme scrawled itself across the paper in gleaming blue ink. She handed it to Stiles. “Now you. Give me your secret.” Her voice went guttural, hungry. 

He clenched his jaw, holding the paper in one hand, hammer in the other. Something like bile swelled in his throat—but he _had_ agreed. He was afraid. What secret was he about to give over, speak into existence? Even he didn’t know. He took a breath and opened his mouth. The words were there, waiting. “I-I’m lonely,” he blurted, and blinked. 

The Spider gestured for him to go on.

Mortified, unable to look at Derek or Halia, he continued: “None of my old friends know anything about me anymore. Just Scott. My dad _barely_ understands what’s going on. Scott, he’s b-busy.” He dropped his gaze, horrified, but unable to stop. “Where do _I_ go? Derek and the pack have each other, and they’ll have Scott soon. Am I supposed to go _back?_ I’m human but I certainly can’t talk to _other_ humans. I’m alone.” He was so red he might just melt into a puddle of shame and humiliation and horror. How was _that_ for weakness? He hadn’t even realized he felt that way but it was true, wasn’t it? Once Scott joined the pack, where would Stiles fit?

The Spider smiled wide. “You’d be coveted and cherished here, mortal, with your Sight.”

Halia’s sword sang when she whipped it out, pointing it at the Spider’s throat. 

She held her hands up, still smiling. “Just something to keep in mind. You have all the answers you need,” she added. “Now leave me. I’m bored.”

Halia wasted no time ushering Derek and Stiles out of the den, her sword still pointed back at the Spider.

Stiles blinked in the light, stumbling as Halia nudged them along. He batted at her. “Quit, I’m going.” His vision cleared little by little as Halia guided them away. The further they got, the more he relaxed. He let out a breath when the Spider’s den was, at last, completely out of sight; the air felt lighter, more breathable now. Sure, it’d been humiliating, but they had a guide now, nonsensical as it seemed. He glanced at Derek, grinning. His face fell.

Halia looked between them. “I will go get food. Just keep walking this way or, um…don’t.” She fled. 

Stiles looked at the paper the Spider had given him. “Maybe the orange path,” he mused, trying to hide his nerves. “It says that it leads to my _fate_ , fate has to-”

“No one wants you gone, Stiles,” Derek broke in. “I told you that.”

Stiles glared at the paper. Okay. So this was happening, they were doing…this. Talking. “Well, Derek,” he said evenly, “I don’t exactly fit, do I? And every life altering event I’ve experienced in the last almost, what, two years, is a big _fucking_ secret, so I can’t exactly talk to my friends about it.”

“Well-”

“And it isn’t like I can _not_ think about it,” he continued, because, well, Derek started it. “Because when I’m not helping Scott werewolf, I’m getting attacked by supernatural things or kidnapped by faeries!”

Derek said, “Okay, one, werewolf is not a verb-” Stiles’s vision went flat red, his hands lifted, he was going to _throttle_ him- “and two, okay, your life has changed. A lot. But _you_ haven’t. You like the same movies, books, games, and TV shows you used to. You’re still the same person.” He took a deep breath. “And three, you only _thought_ you were “normal”. Stiles. You have the Sight, and a geas on you that makes you immune to faerie charms.”

Stiles flung his hands up, losing his grip on the hammer, but he didn’t even care, barely flinching as it bounced hard into the dirt. “So?”

“So my pack is made up of misfits!” He pressed his lips together when Stiles shook his head. “You were the one who kept ignoring our invitations. We wanted you there.” His gaze dropped off to the side. “I wanted you there.”

Stiles fell back a step. He thought of Boyd seeking him out in and out of class, Erica whapping him with her binder, and Isaac telling Derek that Stiles’s dad was hurt. Tension eked from his shoulders, just a little. He was still mortified and ashamed, but not…quite as much. He nodded so Derek knew he’d been listening, and exhaled shakily. He said, “I’m trying to get Scott to join your pack,” because he didn’t really know what else to say.

Derek sighed. “Even if he doesn’t, you’re in it,” he said firmly.

Stiles made himself scoff. “You just want me to make lesson plans for you.”

“I think Lydia’s probably already doing that,” he said dryly. 

Stiles frowned. “How long have we been here?”

Derek grew more serious. “You had been missing for a week and a half when I got here. I’m not sure how long it’s been.” 

Stiles shook his head. “It was like a few days to me.” He looked up at the sky, but as usual he couldn’t discern what time it was. It looked deeper blue than it had in hours—perhaps it was heading toward night?

Halia stomped out from behind some mossy rocks. 

Derek turned so he was beside him, watching her approach.

She held an enormous, bloody bird above her head. “Lunch!” she announced with no small amount of pride.

Stiles cringed, turning his face against Derek’s shoulder. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

Derek laughed, patting his back between his shoulders, and Stiles couldn’t fight off his smile, so he hid it against Derek’s shirt.

Alright. He wasn’t as alone as he’d feared. He was still going to make lesson plans. The pack needed some _direction._


	22. Chapter 22

Music poured from every direction, in every possible configuration: slow and sultry, fast and fun, lively and bright. Some of it was beautiful but indescribable, haunting, reverberating in Stiles’s head long after it had faded and a new song replaced it. It didn’t draw him the way it did unprotected mortals, but it was still mesmerizing. 

As soon as it’d started, Halia had dropped rowan berries over Derek’s head, a necklace that Stiles noticed with some annoyance was made better than the one he’d made. “Leave it,” she said when he tried to take it off. “Don’t you feel more clearheaded already?”

He glanced at Stiles as if for confirmation, but just the fact that he wasn’t stumbling off in search of the source, a dance circle, seemed like proof enough to him.

Stiles nodded anyway, and Derek tucked the necklace under his shirt. “Why’s there so much music?”

“It is almost the solstice. The revels will begin in earnest at dusk and will continue to gain fervor until the solstice, which will be the largest, the loudest of the celebrations.” 

Stiles didn’t respond. He was watching the ground in front of them, the intersecting glowing lines that’d reappeared as the day wore on. He was glad they were back, even though he still didn’t understand the stupid rhyme the Spider had given him. He couldn’t guess which one to follow, and Derek and Halia both seemed to agree that they shouldn’t try any until they’d figured them all out. They had both shot down Stiles’s suggestion of just testing out their best guess. 

“The indigo and blue paths are clearly dangerous,” Halia said, fighting her curls back. She twisted them into messy braids and tucked them under her horns again.

Derek nodded. “Green and purple are dangerous, too.” He checked behind them, but if they were being followed, it was by something even Halia hadn’t noticed. 

Stiles scrubbed his hand over his eyes, then looked back at the paper, rubbing his thumb over the bottom script. He’d tucked his hammer through the strap of his backpack, letting the handle bang gently against his hip with every step, a concession to both his aching arm and the fact that he needed to concentrate on the hint. It helped that he was pretty sure neither Halia nor Derek would let anything eat him.

“An unwalked road is simply unknown,” Halia argued, “not necessarily dangerous.”

Stiles squinted at the Spider’s spindly handwriting. He just wanted to go home, and eat dinner at home, and sleep in his bed _at home._ Also, a shower would be nice. He kicked his foot against the ground lightly, annoyance getting the better of him, and nearly pitched forward. 

“The silver path leads to nothingness,” Halia said. “For those who wait, right?” She glanced back at Stiles. 

He nodded.

Derek fell back so he was walking beside Stiles again, instead of just ahead. 

He looked tired, Stiles observed, with gray shadows under his bloodshot eyes, but he wasn’t flagging nearly as much as Stiles was. Powering through it, he thought with a muttered complaint. 

He was also hovering around Stiles’s shoulder, trying to see the paper.

“I am going to scout ahead, make sure the way is clear,” Halia said. “Keep following my trail. I will circle back soon.” 

Stiles watched her go dully, the gleam of her sword in the light cutting through the paths they were trekking through. He flinched when Derek’s chest pressed into his shoulder. He could see him craning his neck, eyes flicking over the part of the rhyme he could see. Stiles sighed and passed the paper over. The lights were giving him a headache anyway, making it hard to read. 

Derek stared at him, paper clutched awkwardly between his fingers where Stiles had shoved it. His brows slowly drew down, mouth twisting before pressing flat like a disapproving parent.

“What?”

“Nothing.” His expression cleared. “You just…don’t usually share like that.”

Stiles laughed bitterly before he could stop it. “Well, you got a _humiliating_ peek into my mind already. What’s left to keep to myself?” He waved carelessly at the paper. “We both need to figure that out anyway.”

“It’s not humiliating to feel lonely and scared,” Derek said quietly. 

Stiles dropped his gaze back to the paths. “Okay.”

Derek cleared his throat. “You’re good for the pack,” he said gruffly. 

Stiles flushed, eyes darting around for a distraction. He ended up tracing the paths, but there were so many crossing each other that he couldn’t really see where they went past a few feet. He turned, looking at the ones behind him, the ones that seemed to go straight through Derek’s legs, his own legs. “I want to try something.”

Derek eyed him warily. 

Stiles waved at him to stop walking. “Wait right there. I’m just gonna test something.” He picked out the orange path from the rest and stepped sideways so he was standing on it, putting his back to Derek, facing…maybe east? He had no idea, this place had no sun. He wasn’t sure how the paths worked in practical ways, so, with a glance back, he followed it. 

The path became clearer and leveled out, stretching in front of him like a glowing orange sidewalk. “Orange may lead you to your fate.” _Okay,_ he thought, _take me to my fate._ He was mostly trying to avoid an awkward conversation, but he really hoped this wouldn’t get him killed. He took another step. Wind rushed around him, whipping at his hair and clothes, knocking the hammer hard against his side. He walked two more steps, forcing his way through the wind, and rocked forward, nearly falling, when it stopped abruptly.

He was staring at Derek’s back.

“Stiles?” he called, walking forward. He looked around, breath heaving. 

Stiles swayed in place. “Whoa.” 

Derek whipped around. “What the hell, Stiles!”

He held his hands up, still dizzy. “What happened?” He grimaced when he started tipping sideways; he braced his legs and made himself just focus on Derek’s face.

“You took three steps and disappeared.” He crossed his arms, crushing the paper against his side while he glared at Stiles.

He nodded, then groaned when his head spun. “Okay, okay…clearly we-we have to figure them out before I follow them.” He pushed his hand against his temple. “Message received.”

“Idiot,” Derek muttered. “Which one did you follow?” He moved so they were standing shoulder to shoulder, helping Stiles walk in a straight line.

“Orange.” When Derek looked at him like he was crazy, he said, “What, I thought my fate was probably in Beacon Hills.” He shrugged and looked at the sky. It was still getting darker, deepening to velvety blue without any stars. The music was still playing, and Stiles let himself get lost in it for a few minutes; it made it easy not to think, draining away his thoughts until he was just an exhausted zombie, shuffling forward in time with Derek’s steps, inhaling the scents of cinnamon and apples that were permeating the forest. 

Halia approached from further up the trail. “We should stop for the evening.”

Stiles looked up, rolling his head loosely on his neck. “Is that what this is?” He scowled. “We have to keep going,” he added. “We need to get home.”

“We don’t know where to go,” Derek pointed out, knocking Stiles with his shoulder lightly. “If we rest, we can take more time to figure out the paths.”

“And I need to sleep.” Halia shrugged. “I will make camp over here.” She left the trail to head deeper into the trees. 

Her idea of camp was a small, ruby red campfire and a bedroll, which she collapsed on top of promptly and knocked out. Her sword was still across her back; she slept on her stomach, face pillowed on her arms. 

Stiles set his backpack down and rolled his shoulders, wincing. He ached everywhere. Stopping was a good idea. He sat down with a sigh and tilted his head back to look at Derek. 

He sat down, too, but kept poring over the rhyme, concentration digging lines in the corners of his eyes. 

Stiles observed the red and orange lines going through Derek’s middle, the silver one through his legs and the black one that twisted away from both of them. They weren’t really going away anymore, just fading when he wasn’t concentrating on them. No longer eye-searing, but never really gone, either. He shuffled his feet against the plush grass under them. There were flowers dotting the ground, but it was hard to pay attention with the lines and the ruby red flames and Derek’s shoulder pressed to his. It was getting a little chilly. He looked at Derek’s laser-focused face. “Thanks for coming after me,” he said quietly. He let his gaze rest on the lines through Derek again instead of his face. His head spun. He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“You’ve said that about six times already. You don’t have to keep thanking me.” He looked over and frowned like he thought Stiles was going to puke on him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He looked forward again, rubbing his forehead. “When we get back, we’re going to have so much junk food.” 

“Curly fries?”

Stiles laughed. “Yes.”

“I’ll buy you a pile of them,” Derek promised. 

Stiles dug his fingertips into the grass. He thought about Derek buying the pack pizzas when they invaded his house and Isaac’s custom slushie. He rubbed his fist against his sternum and leaned in, kissing Derek’s cheek. The warmth washed away in a cold wave of realization. He jerked back, toppled over his bag, and lurched to his feet, hands held out. “I am so sorry, oh my god.” He looked around wildly and, desperate, plunged into the trees. 

Even predator silent, he knew after a few seconds of blind walking that Derek was behind him. Stupid, stupid, he was almost alarmingly aware of him, he should’ve put a stop to this a long time ago.

He swung around and held his hands up like he was about to be mugged. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m just—I need some air.” 

It was too dark this far from the fire to see Derek’s face. “Okay,” he said impassively.

Stiles nodded, swallowing thickly, and turned around. He’d only walked a few more yards before he realized Derek was still following him about six feet back. He sighed. “You don’t need to follow me. I’m just pacing.” He didn’t look back.

“That’s fine,” Derek said, and continued to follow at a distance. 

Stiles whirled on him. “ _What_ are you doing?”

“You could get eaten.”

Stiles let out a strangled growl, throwing his hands up again. “This-this is my problem. Stop being nice.”

“What?”

Stiles stalked close enough to see Derek’s face at last, pointing at him like a scolding teacher. “You’re an asshole, you’re _supposed_ to be an asshole, so I can be an asshole back.”

Derek’s face twisted. “I’m not being nice.”

“You’re taking care of us,” Stiles snapped. 

“I’m the alpha!” He looked flustered at the words, easing back a step and glancing around. “We take care of each other.”

Stiles glared at him, then scrubbed his eyes, frustrated to find that he was tearing up. He was tired and embarrassed—again—and there Derek was, rumpled from travel, bloody from fights, and flustered because he’d been accused of being nice. Stiles wanted to cry and if his track record was any indication, he would lose it right in front of Derek, too.

Derek made a sound like a grating sigh, then reached out, tugging Stiles’s elbow until, somehow, they were hugging. He wasn’t very good at it, arms tense like he was restraining Stiles rather than holding him, shoulders stiff, but he was relaxing little by little.

Stiles went limp, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder. Frustration nearly strangled him. Derek was not supposed to be helpful or kind or thoughtful and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be giving Stiles hugs, even awkward ones. 

Derek turned his head and dropped a kiss on Stiles’s cheek before he pulled back and grinned at him. “Payback.” 

Stiles, overwhelmed with too many emotions to sort through, bounced forward and kissed him on the mouth, a quick smacking kiss, and said, “Payback.” 

Derek flushed. An uncomfortable smile curled his lips before he turned, pulling Stiles by the hand back to the camp. He sat in the same spot he’d left, tugging Stiles down next to him. 

Stiles dragged his backpack into his lap, acutely aware of Derek’s every move, every quiet breath. He needed something to do, otherwise he was going to vibrate out of his skin. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, then unzipped his backpack. He checked that the jar Jallena had given him was unbroken, wrapped in cloth, and knocked the books around into a more comfortable position. He probably should’ve just abandoned them a while ago, since they were filled with nonsense now, but he wanted to hold onto them as proof he hadn’t imagined this entire strange adventure. He swept his fingers across the bottom of the bag, checking for loose nails, and found something thin and cold. 

He pulled out the bracelet he’d found days ago, buried in soft dirt. The one a phouka had led him to. He examined the tiny links, the unreadable charm, and pressed his thumbs together around it, so the links dented his skin. He looked over at Derek; he’d sat so the orange and red lines went through him again. “We should go out,” Stiles said.

“Out?” Derek repeated without looking up from the paper.

Stiles couldn’t look up from the lines, but not because he was afraid. He felt weird and brave and excited. “When we make it home, we should go out together and kiss on purpose.”

Derek looked at him.

Stiles waited a beat. “You can say no.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

He lifted his gaze just as Derek leaned in; their noses bumped. He laughed, cheeks hot, and ducked his head. 

Derek caught him by the back of the neck and reeled him in. Their mouths met softly, but with purpose.

Stiles closed his eyes and leaned into it, bracing his hand against Derek’s shoulder. The kiss was warm and sweet, unhurried. Stiles twisted his fist in the fabric of Derek’s shirt, pulling him as close as he could while they tried to keep their balance. Orange light flared against his eyelids, but he didn’t care.


	23. Chapter 23

Halia’s yowl of pain dragged him out of sleep, but it wasn’t until Derek’s snarling fury drowned out all other noises that Stiles’s body realized they were in danger. He snapped awake, shooting upright and swinging his arm out for his hammer. He’d fallen asleep curled up next to Derek, barely touching but close enough that it’d taken him breathless minutes to settle enough to sleep. Now Derek was gone. His fingers just barely managed to brush the handle of his hammer before someone snatched it away.

A redcap threw the hammer off to the side and crouched by Stiles’s feet, catching him by the ankles. 

Stiles threw himself backward, jerking his knees to escape.

Clawed hands clamped down on his shoulders, pinning him in place. 

“Let go!” He flung his head back, but the redcap just moved before he could smash her nose. A rope looped around his ankles even though he was kicking as hard as he could, making as much trouble as possible. The rope pulled tight, pinning his legs together. He wrenched his arm up and back, digging fingernails into something soft until the redcap shouted and let go. He flipped over onto his belly, pushing with his bound feet.

A foot stomped down on his backpack, pushing him into the dirt. They grabbed his wrists and dragged them behind his back, tying them together. 

He looked up just as Derek tackled a redcap, snarling and leaving a clear space for Stiles to see that their little camp had been invaded. Halia was fighting already, her sword singing with each swing, but it wasn’t enough. Blood ran down her face unchecked. Derek cursed.

Stiles looked automatically. “Derek!”

He had a sword though his leg, face going shockingly white. He stumbled back, but the redcap followed him.

Stiles kicked convulsively. His boots connected with something solid.

A redcap howled. 

Stiles curled his knees in, puffing against the grass, and pushed himself up, straining his arms behind his back. The rope tying his wrists together didn’t budge. The world swayed, but he had no time to let it settle—Derek was bleeding out and Halia was outmatched five to one. He straightened, scanning around for something sharp to free his legs. A flash of silver from the corner of his eye sent him rolling without knowing what it was.

A boot stamped on his stomach, winding him. The faerie leaning over him had long, red-brown hair tangled around jade colored horns, pale, pale skin—almost as pale as the redcaps—and blazing brown-gold eyes. Her lip curled with annoyance, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth. “You are _almost_ more trouble than you are worth.”

Stiles rubbed his wrists against the rope binding him, but there was absolutely no give, and he had no leverage to try kicking her. His backpack pressed hard against his spine. 

Beyond her, Halia let out an impressive string of compound swears, and a redcap screamed. 

“Don’t try to fight,” the faerie warned Stiles, and reached down. She grabbed him by the upper arm and hauled him to his feet. 

He clamped her hand between his arm and ribs and turned, jerking her closer. He lunged, slamming his head against hers as hard as he could.

She shrieked and dropped him, grabbing for her bleeding nose.

Stiles wobbled and fell on his cut side, wrenching a short scream from his throat. Winded with pain, he only managed to inch forward before she grabbed him again.

“You’re a waste,” she hissed, blood-sticky fingers clamping on his jaw. “Most would be grateful for this opportunity.” 

“What opportunity?” he growled, muffled.

She squeezed his jaw tighter. “Immortality. Living life with a prince—a life of decadence, to be sure.” 

“Fuck off.” He jerked his head, but she had him too tightly for him to bite her.

“Disgraceful. Mortals used to respect us.” She dug her nails into his cheeks, then dragged him.

He twisted, but he couldn’t see Derek or Halia—there were too many redcaps and they were all too loud, almost jovial, for him to guess if they were alive or not.

The faerie hauled him up onto a monstrous blue horse, tying him tightly to the saddle like baggage. She mounted up in front of him. Even flat on his belly, the horse was so large his feet didn’t come close to the ground. As they began to move, he kicked and squirmed, hoping he could fall off, but he was tied too tightly to move much. He took a steady breath to calm the panic building in his mind. He needed to be able to think and freaking out cut his planning skills down by more than half. Another deep breath. He was bound, but not helpless. He didn’t have his hammer, but he had his backpack. He had the nails in his pocket. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember his last sight of the camp.

Had he seen Derek over a redcap’s shoulder, or was that wishful thinking? What about Halia? Had that been her sword or a redcap’s? Were they dead?

He breathed. In, out, repeat. He had to concentrate on what he needed to do. He would think about them once he escaped. He turned his head, but he couldn’t see much—the horse, the faerie, trees whipping past.

Another horse, this one green with an ivy pattern on its coat, caught up to them.

Stiles craned his neck. “Fuck.”

Phira spared him a smirk before turning her attention to his captor, gaze zeroing in like she was angry. “Mivian, you damaged him.”

“That is _my_ blood. He is fine.”

More horses rode up on them, a small crowd of redcaps that didn’t look like they’d just survived a battle against an alpha werewolf and a pissed off faerie.

Phira and Mivian argued in a language similar to French while their horses kept pace with each other. 

Stiles glared at the back of their heads until his neck got tired. It didn’t matter. They’d have to stop eventually, and by then, he’d have a plan. It would be difficult, but he was pretty sure he could get his feet loose if he kicked his boots off. It would loosen the rope and maybe he could slide free. He twisted his hands together, but all that managed to do was rub his wrists raw against the rope. He grunted and relaxed his arms. What was in his bag? Not much as far as weapons went. The mysterious vial Jallena had given him. The books. They were pretty heavy. He could hurl one at them and run, but they would likely catch him—and that was supposing he could get his wrists and ankles free, get into his bag, and get the book out. He tried to reach into his pocket, hoping to pick his way free with a nail, but the strain that put on his right shoulder and his spine didn’t let him get close. 

The horse leaped over something, jostling him against the saddle. 

He groaned. His wounds were never going to heal. He twisted to look at Mivian. “Where are you taking me?”

She didn’t even look back.

“Why me?” he tried. “And why not just take me from my house?”

She still didn’t respond, her hair flying back in the wind. 

“Why make me wander around instead of grabbing me immediately?” When he still got no response, he kicked his legs, frustrated. “Oh.” He grinned to himself. “Because you couldn’t find me, right? You had no idea where I plopped into Faerie.”

Phira glanced back at him, then away quickly.

Stiles tucked his grin against the saddle, then nodded. “I guess you couldn’t just take me because Halia’s seventeen-year-old geas was too powerful for you.”

Mivian snarled, “Halia is an old-”

“Shh!” Phira hissed. She looked around, shifting her hands on the reins like she was nervous.

Stiles relaxed his shoulders. He’d found a sore spot. Time to prod it. He made himself yawn. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Halia will catch up and rescue me in no time.”

Phira shot him a sour look. “She has better things to do, mortal.”

Stiles made sure he looked bored, sleepy even. “This will be a little errand for her.” He smiled. “It’ll barely disrupt her day.”

Mivian’s spine was stiff, shoulders tight. Every time he spoke, her head twitched, a tiny, irritable jerk like she couldn’t help herself. 

He thought hard, raking his mind. _Lie._ It was the only thing he had that they couldn’t take from him. “Halia couldn’t stop laughing about how sloppy this plan was. How childish, how silly. We laughed about it over tea.” He smiled again. “It was barely effective. Halia said if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have even gotten to Faerie at all-”

Mivian twisted, backhanding him so hard his head rang, vision blacking out. 

He jolted hard. When his vision cleared, he found himself in the dirt, dazed, jaw aching. 

“ _Mivian,_ ” Phira snapped. 

Stiles shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but he was too dazed. The rope had come untied, he realized. The one tethering him to the horse. Did she do that with magic, or force? Ouch. 

“When has Halia ever used that many words?” Phira demanded. She dismounted and looked down at Stiles. Her lip curled. “Mortals lie.”

Stiles made himself smirk, despite the throbbing pain of his jaw. “Why bother when the truth is better?”

Confusion crossed Phira’s face, then irritation; she looked at Mivian, conflicted. 

Stiles cupped a rock between his bound hands, arching his back just enough to hide it.

Mivian jumped off her horse, walking toward him unhurried, her expression thunderous. When she was close enough, Stiles kicked out with both feet. She shoved his legs aside and leaned down so they were face to face. Aside from the blood smeared on her chin and nose, there was no evidence of the wound he’d given her earlier. She smiled, cheeks slitting up toward her ears. “It does not _matter_ what Halia thinks. We have got a party to go to.”

Stiles kicked at the ground, scooting himself backward, but it didn’t matter. 

The redcaps circled back, and between the four of them, despite Stiles’s squirming and cursing, they got him back up on Mivian’s horse. His jaw throbbed. “You know Halia will catch up to us. You know she’s going to get me back. How is this worth it?”

Mivian busied herself digging around in a bag next to Stiles’s head.

He wished he could reach her. He’d read that it only took seven pounds of pressure to rip a human ear off. Now was the perfect time to test it. She wasn’t exactly human, but he bet it’d hurt either way. “She told me about you two,” he blathered in an attempt to distract them. The longer they were standing still, the better chance there was of Derek and Halia catching up to them. 

Assuming they’d survived the ambush, of course. 

He inhaled sharply. “Halia told me you guys are young—like little kids, basically. Taking your first trip to the mortal realm. She thought it was cute how you got distracted by the first oddity you saw on your first trip.”

Phira was openly glaring at him, frozen with her hand on her horse’s reins. She braced as if to climb up, but couldn’t help twisting to scowl at him.

“She said that you guys were hopeful idiots,” he blurted. “Because why would a prince-” He choked when Mivian shoved something into his mouth. He snorted and shook his head. 

It didn’t stop her. She reached around to tie the gag behind his head, ignoring the way he was throwing his head around. “There,” she sighed. “Much better, don’t you think, Phira?”

“Yes.” She glared again before getting into her saddle. 

Stiles let his head hang. Whatever Mivian had knocked loose with her smack earlier had gotten jarred again from his shaking. The gag tasted like old coins on his tongue. He focused on breathing through his nose until his vision settled. The horse began to move again.

Okay. This was fine. He’d always wanted to know why the victims in movies didn’t try to get gags like this off or try harder, well, now he’d know. He pushed at it with his lips and tongue, worked his jaw back and forth. He clenched his teeth around it as tightly as possible, hoping the pressure would loosen the knot. He had to stop to catch his breath, more because his heart was battering against his ribs than because he couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the saddle. He still had his rock and the nails in his pocket. He just needed a plan.

Phira had seemed annoyed when she’d noticed the blood on his face. Even after finding out it wasn’t his, she and Mivian had argued. He was meant as a gift for a prince. In theory, they would want him to look…presentable when they handed him over, which meant stopping before they reached the party. 

He’d have to escape then. They’d have to untie at least his feet if they wanted him in clothes that weren’t blood and dirt stained. He’d just run when they did that. He’d use his rock and his nails and he’d figure out what to do next _after_ he got away. 

He turned his head, glaring at Mivian’s back until he felt he could’ve melted flesh from bone. That would’ve been a worthwhile superpower, he reflected with some annoyance. Laser vision rather than the Sight. He rested his cheek on the saddle again, discouraged. 

They bumped over rough trails; the motion tugged at the gag. 

Stiles blinked, gaze flicking down. He rubbed his cheek against the saddle like a cat asking for attention; slowly, slowly, the gag rolled down his cheek. He had to be careful, or he’d roll it back up, but he had a working system within minutes. Being able to speak wasn’t exactly a lifesaving boon, but he could stall and distract like a pro. He just needed to get it down far enough to compromise the integrity of the tie, then it’d slip off on its own.

Mivian and Phira were talking again, calmer now, occasionally laughing.

The redcaps split off, the echo of their horses’ hooves striking the ground making Stiles’s ears ring. 

He closed his eyes. He had time. Breathe in, out. Back to work. 

The horse began to slow.

His heart tripped.

They were slowing down, just the three of them now, and both Phira and Mivian sounded cheerful.

“I am sure,” Phira giggled in response to whatever Mivian had said before. She swung off her horse and walked it out of Stiles’s eye line.

Mivian twisted to look back at him before she got down. To his surprise, she cut the rope holding his ankles together, then yanked him down. “Do not run.” She stepped close and held the point of the knife against his left side. “Walk slowly or we will take turns stabbing you.” 

He went where she prodded him. They were out front of a strange little house built into the side of a giant tree. 

Phira trotted down the spiraling porch steps while they were walking toward it. She set a dark bottle on the porch, then a pile of clothes. “Here, maybe we should wipe his face clean.”

Stiles’s eyebrow twitched before he could help it.

“No, I do not think we should.” Mivian scratched at the dried blood on his jaw. “We will do that after.”

Phira shrugged and dropped the wet rag on the porch with a plop.

“You hold this.” Mivian passed her the knife.

Phira moved the sharp point of it up to his throat. “No sudden movements,” she giggled. “I might slip.” She scraped the blade against his neck lightly. 

Stiles glared at Mivian. 

She paid him no mind, focusing instead on unbuttoning his shirt with quick, deft fingers. She hummed thoughtfully. “Guess we will have to untie his hands.”

Phira said, “Or we could cut the shirt away.”

“Still have to put the other one on.”

“Hm.” She angled the knife closer. “We could untie him. He is not going to run. Are you?” She moved the knife, holding the point of it close to his eye.

He swallowed, looking away.

She laughed. “I believe that is a no.”

Mivian untied his hands and yanked his backpack off, dropping it carelessly, then ripped the shirt off.

Stiles flexed his wrists and fingers, concealing the rock in his right palm. He thought about running, but his backpack was next to Phira and her knife was resting on his cheekbone, cold and sharp and right below his eye, just visible. 

Mivian returned to stuff a deep orange tunic over his head. “Put your arms through.” 

He considered ignoring her, but that knife was like ice on his cheek. He obeyed. 

While she was grabbing the pants to go with the tunic, Stiles tried to pull the gag off his mouth.

Phira pressed down with the knife.

A sting of pain, followed by a trail of warmth like a heavy tear down his face made him freeze. 

“Leave it,” she ordered. 

Mivian yanked his old pants down and off, nearly knocking him to his ass when he didn’t lift his feet to make it easier. She pulled the new pants, a soft yellow color, over his boots and up, then gave the whole outfit a once over. “Well, it will have to do.” She yanked the gag down. “If you bite me, I’m biting you back.” She lifted the wet rag and roughly wiped the blood away from his jaw; she pressed down hard on the bruise she’d made, smiling when he winced. “Alright.” She tossed the rag with his old clothes. “Let’s go.” She jerked his arm. 

Stiles threw himself back. “No. Let me get my bag.”

Phira grabbed him by the back of the shirt, knife pressed into his side. “You will not need it. We will hurt you, so get on the horse.”

Stiles threw himself sideways; the knife sliced across his right forearm. He ran straight.

“Don’t _cut_ him, we need him _alive,_ ” Mivian snarled. 

Stiles ducked past the horses.

Phira stepped in his path directly, shocking him. “We are fast,” she said when he stumbled backward, trying to change directions and only managing to tangle his feet. 

Mivian grabbed his bleeding arm in a bruising grip, dragging him back to the house. 

Phira’s knife prodded the small of his back.

Stiles dug his heels in. “No. Let me get my bag.” He looked around wildly. “If you don’t, I’ll make you kill me, but-but if you let me take it, I’ll behave. You won’t have to tie me up, even.”

Mivian and Phira exchanged a glance. Mivian nodded. 

Phira bolted to the porch.

While Stiles was sighing with relief, Mivian kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, finally losing his grip on the rock. His last weapon. 

Mivian flipped him over onto his back. She straddled him, pinning his arms down with her knees. She reached up as Phira returned and held a bottle over Stiles’s face. Without a word, she tipped it against his mouth, clacking the glass against his teeth.

He pressed his lips closed, trying to jerk his head away. 

Phira knelt above him, pining his head in place with her knees, and pinched his nose.

The wine was sweet and light, red as rubies, red as Derek’s alpha eyes, red as flames. 

He tried not to swallow it, but with Mivian keeping his mouth shut and Phira pinching his nostrils, he had to either swallow or choke. He relaxed the instant he swallowed it. His head spun, giddiness surging through him and washing away the fear. He felt flushed and drunk.

“There,” Mivian sighed. “All better.” She smiled sweetly at him. 

He blinked at her. He could still think through the haze. He just had to…had to…

“Now sleep,” she ordered. 

Exhaustion swept over him. He fought it even as his eyes bobbed. His vision wavered. He had to stay awake. Derek would be coming for him. He’d find Stiles’s bag and clothes and…Why didn’t the geas work against faerie wine? So stupid. Stupid superpower. 

“Sleep,” Mivian said, more firmly. 

He slept.


	24. Chapter 24

The heat woke him. Baking heat directly on his face, drying up his lips and throat, beating on his eyelids. He was desperately thirsty but, he realized, clearheaded. He was lying on his back in grass, it felt like, with his hands tied in front of him. No more horse. He carefully squinted an eye open and looked down. He was dressed in a yellow tunic now, and black pants, with the same boots he’d been wearing for days. There were ribbons tied around his wrists instead of rope, multiple shades of yellow, red, and orange. His arm was bandaged neatly where Phira had cut him. He looked to his side.

Phira was sleeping on his right, Mivian to the left, both snoozing peacefully in the grass. 

He lifted his head. 

There was a castle across the yard from them, tall, with spires and draped in green. Other faeries lounged in the grass with them, sleeping or resting, sprawled out like this was a perfectly normal place to sleep.

Stiles glanced at Phira, then Mivian. He slowly, slowly turned onto his side, keeping his eyes shut.

Phira grunted, but she must’ve assumed he was moving in his sleep, because she only grumbled and rolled over, curling on her side. 

He rolled, finally, onto his stomach after what felt like hours. He began to move forward. Inches. Centimeters. The smallest movements, barely a crawl. It was nearly sunset, nearly time for the party. He kept going, dragging himself with his bound hands, not daring to use his feet to push himself.

Getting darker.

Slowly, slowly.

They were going to wake up any moment.

He held his breath, barely inhaling when he had to. He focused on the orange path, veering off into the woods surrounding the courtyard, but he had to actually step onto the path to follow it. He reached the edge of the grass and kept going until he reached dirt, off of the grounds of the castle. He dug his elbows in and pushed onto his knees. He had to be far enough away now to get up, to run-

A hand clamped down on his injured shoulder, wrenching a shout of surprise and pain from him. Mivian dragged him back to the grass. “Do not make us waste more wine on you.” Her voice was rough from sleep.

Phira was sitting up, blinking at them in the dying light. “He is easily more palatable drunk.”

“Yes, I agree.”

Stiles got his feet under him, crouched, and launched straight up. The top of his head smashed into Mivian’s nose. He twisted, scrambling away while she squawked and tried to stem the blood. He didn’t even make it out of the grass before Phira caught his arm.

Mivian was pissed but healed by the time she’d dragged him back again. “It is time,” she muttered. 

Music began to play, flowing and beautiful. 

Stiles’s head throbbed. He twisted his wrists, but the ribbons were too knotted for him to work himself free. 

Phira picked up a flower chain from next to the flattened grass where she’d slept, setting it across her own head, arranging it so they draped over her short horns. She was watching Stiles mess with the ribbons. “You get a bow, because you’re the gift,” she laughed. 

Mivian scoffed. “I hope Prince Fauriei enjoys you,” she snarled. 

“Bet he won’t.” Stiles dropped his shoulders and smirked. “I’m an acquired taste.”

“Then he will acquire it.”

“Even faeries don’t live that long.”

Phira giggled, then shrugged when Mivian whirled on her.

They each took one of Stiles’s arms in firm grips and marched him toward the castle. They took a straight path through the courtyard, stepping on and over plenty of grumbling, growling fey.

Stiles tried to dig his heels in, but he was weak and dizzy still, so they mostly just ended up dragging him while he stumbled between them. They did not seem to notice his weight.

The castle was draped in ivy, purple and red and deep emerald green, and as they passed through the doors, the heady scents of food filled the air. Light was let in through stained glass windows, most of them depicting faerie royalty with grand, impossible crowns and bejeweled weapons. The music was a level louder inside, and there were already faeries everywhere somehow. They wore a wide array of outfits and fabrics, mostly in shades of red, orange, and yellow; some glittered and others dripped and some changed color depending on who they were standing near. There were horns and antlers, wings, hooves, trunks, unimaginably beautiful faces, horrifying configurations that Stiles couldn’t look at for longer than a few seconds. 

He leaned back when they passed a faerie with long, needle-like nails, straining to get away. 

Mivian squeezed his arm. “If you do not behave,” she growled in his ear, “I will pour wine down your throat and _make_ you behave.”

He looked back, but the doors were blocked by a group dressed in molten orange suits. 

Mivian and Phira dragged him through the crowd toward a wreathed dais, ivy sprawling from it like a spider web. Two thrones—one tall and deep emerald green, the other shorter and paler—sat in the center, overlooking the party. 

Stiles looked over the crowd for help, but it wasn’t like Halia and Derek were hidden among the guests. He saw uninterested expressions, smirks, even hungry gazes. 

“Mortal, you made it.”

Stiles blinked and found Kisallis slipping free of the crowd. They wore an outfit that looked to be made of shards of glass that glimmered at every angle. 

They looked at Mivian and Phira. “I will have him for a blessed sword.”

Mivian bared her teeth. “No.”

Kisallis tutted. “What about a blessed sword and a cursed dagger?”

“ _No._ This is my gift to the prince,” Mivian snapped.

Kisallis twisted their lips. “Marwin gave him those boots,” they said, staring intensely into Stiles’s eyes. 

Stiles’s heart bumped. Marwin gave him the boots—and an iron knife, too, which he’d forgotten about, tucked into a hidden pocket of the boot.

Mivian rolled her eyes. “We have no need to hobble him.”

Kisallis shrugged elegantly, giving Stiles one last look before they wandered away. 

Phira jumped. “Mivian,” she whispered, “there’s a fetch here.”

Mivian glared at her. “Who cares? Someone will get rid of it.” She pulled Stiles forward roughly, making him wobble, then shoved him to his knees in front of the dais.

He let himself crumple, tucking himself into an awkward ball. His bound hands made it difficult, but he got his fingers clumsily around the knife handle. He pulled, pretending to tip over. He had to bite down on his lip as the blade sliced through his pants, cutting his skin.

Phira grabbed his shoulders, tugging him upright.

He turned the knife inward, hiding the blade in the mess of ribbons. It nicked his palm, making him flinch. 

Phira pulled harder, finally pulling him completely upright. “You people have no pride,” she muttered. 

“And you have no shame.”

She looked at him like she wanted to shove him back over, but Mivian stepped up beside her before she could. They looked at the faeries on the thrones, both performing curtsies. 

“Queen Blyze,” Mivian murmured, head bowed. 

The queen watched her with eyes like an owl’s, orange and piercing.

“Prince Fauriei,” Phira simpered. 

The prince was more striking, with long silver hair and eyes that gleamed like metal.

Stiles twisted the knife handle between his fingers without looking down, until the sharp edge of the blade pressed against the ribbons. 

“I have brought a gift for the prince,” Mivian said, setting a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. 

Prince Fauriei looked unimpressed at the sight of him, which Stiles was weirdly insulted by. 

“He has the Sight,” Mivian explained hurriedly. “Naturally occurring Sight. A rare gift.” She raised her head proudly when a momentary, surprised hush fell over the party. “He got here on his own.”

Prince Fauriei looked intrigued at last, leaning forward in his throne as if he meant to examine Stiles like a used car he was inspecting for damage. 

Stiles felt ribbons breaking under the knife, giving him more and more freedom to move his hands. He had no idea what he would do once he was free, but it had to be better than waiting.

Phira shifted her feet, casting uneasy glances to the left. 

The fetch was creeping through the crowd, one eerie eye locked on Stiles. Half of its head was ruined, one eye obliterated. Crushed, by an iron hammer.

Perfect. 

“I gift him to you, Your Highness-” Mivian was saying.

The stained glass window showing a faerie with fiery hair slaying a fetch exploded, sending glass shattering over the crowd. They surged away, screaming and hissing.

Stiles yanked his wrists free of the last ribbons and scrambled to his feet. 

Phira snatched at his arm.

He drew the knife across the back of her hand, making her scream. He bared his teeth and backed away. 

“Stiles!”

He whipped around. He knew that tone of snarl.

Derek and Halia were stalking through the crowd of finely dressed faeries, ragged and bloody. Derek was shifted, fangs and all, and had most of the fey looking stunned by it.

The fetch slithered past them, reaching out for Stiles. 

Halia whirled on it with her sword.

Queen Blyze’s voice cut through Stiles’s shock. “Did you,” she thundered, “bring a _wolf_ to my Court?” Her ferocious gaze was on Mivian.

She shrank in place. “No, Your Majesty. He’s human.” She pointed at Stiles. 

“And part of my pack,” Derek snarled. He stopped next to Stiles, all but vibrating with rage. 

“He is not,” Mivian protested. “I watched.”

Derek’s eyes flashed. 

Queen Blyze rubbed her temples. “You’ve brought a wolf.”

Halia and the fetch were engaged in a fierce fight, claws against sword, while the music played on. The attendees were, stunningly, going back to the party, dancing around the fight. 

Stiles turned in place. They had to get out of here before everything exploded. He followed the lines with his eyes. The orange path looped, the black tunneled through the crowd, impossible to follow without fighting, and the indigo curled around the dais. Red still went straight though Derek.

“I am keeping the mortal,” Prince Fauriei announced in a high, clear voice, to the general enthusiasm of the crowd. They tittered excitedly. 

_Orange may lead you to your fate. Indigo is for the bold._

Queen Blyze sighed, shifting her skirts in place. She was wearing the threatening, throbbing-wound dress Marwin had been making. She waved a graceful hand at Derek. “You are welcome to fight him, my son. But remember, wolves are _physical_ mortal creatures.”

Prince Fauriei nodded and stood, holding his hand out. A pixie in a tunic handed him a bejeweled sword with a grin. “I will fight for him.” 

Mivian shot Derek a venomous look. “But _I_ got him.”

Derek bared his teeth at her.

Stiles grabbed his arm. “Are you seriously about to _duel_ for me? You aren’t _armed._ ”

Derek looked just as confused as Stiles about the whole situation, which was not encouraging.

The faeries nearest them were circling, like high schoolers about to watch a fight in the hallway, talking over each other in a variety of languages. 

Mivian’s gaze darted around, then, sulking, she backed up until she’d joined the spectators. 

Phira was removed from the group, cradling her injured hand. She caught Stiles’s eye and for a moment looked thoughtful. She shrugged and turned her back on him, squeezing through the crowd until she was out of sight. 

Stiles looked around. If he could get to Halia, he bet they’d have a better chance of escaping with her sword.

Prince Fauriei descended from the dais, his boots clicking as they struck the marble floor. He stood across from them with a smug, assuming smile and perfect posture. He looked almost human, except for his metal eyes and off-putting, lovely features, too beautiful to be human. 

Stiles caught Derek by the back of the neck, yanking him in close.

Derek’s eyes went wide.

He ghosted their mouths together, almost kissing. “Keep him busy,” he breathed. “I’ll find a way out.”

Derek nodded and kissed him more firmly, hand cupped gently around his bruised jaw.

Stiles pulled away, tongue tied, and only managed to nod at him before he turned to face Prince Fauriei. 

He flicked his claws out. His only weapon.

Stiles backed away. Most of the crowd was fixated on the fight, which gave him the space he needed to figure out the paths. He tried to find Halia and came face-to-face with Kisallis instead. He froze, then lifted his knife slowly.

They held up his backpack with a strange little smile. “Your fetch has found you,” they said with a heavy sigh.

Stiles cautiously took the bag. “Where-?”

They shrugged before he could finish.

He decided not to ask and put the bag over his shoulders. “Why did you help me?”

They smiled again, this one wider. “Did I help you?” Then they shrugged. “Well, this would be far too boring with you tied up, don’t you think?” They tilted their head. “Oh, this is a good song. Dance?” Kisallis held their hand out.

Behind them, Derek snarled, and the crowd gasped. 

Stiles scowled. “I am about to be taken _captive_ again. I don’t want to dance.”

Kisallis looked around. “Eh. It’s a nice castle. I could visit, if you stayed.”

Stiles shook his head, annoyed. “I need to find Halia.” He couldn’t help looking back at Derek; was he bloodier than before? Was he moving slower than usual? It looked like Prince Fauriei was doing more damage than him.

Kisallis huffed. “She is over there, dispatching your fetch.” They peered closely at Stiles’s face. 

Stiles looked at them finally. Kisallis wasn’t friendly, but they had helped him, and he wasn’t sure they were being cruel when they’d suggested he stay. He backed up a step.

Kisallis smiled. “Farewell, mortal. And visit. You fit right in here.”

“In what way?”

They shrugged and drifted into the crowd. A faerie with antlers smiled and offered her hand for a dance, looking delighted when they swept her onto the dance floor and out of Stiles’s sight. 

Stiles looked at Derek again. The orange path seemed to stretch between him and Derek, while the red…Stiles jolted. _Roaming souls._ His pack. The red path would lead an alpha to his pack—right? 

Derek grunted, pressing a hand to his chest where Fauriei’s sword had slashed him. 

Stiles winced. _May lead you to your fate…_ He took a deep breath and followed the orange path. It took him two steps, his vision hazed over, and he was directly behind Derek. 

Derek jumped back from Fauriei’s sword, nearly toppling the both of them over. 

“Here!” Stiles pressed the knife into his hand. 

Derek took it without turning and threw himself back at Fauriei. 

Halia stepped up next to Stiles, shaking blood off her sword. She’d won against the fetch, apparently, though she had a deep cut up the side of her face. 

“I figured out the path,” he blurted. “The one I need to take, I figured it out.”

“Then take it,” she said bluntly. 

“Not without Derek.”

“He’s busy.”

“Not without Derek,” he snapped. He glared over the fight. He couldn’t help, and Derek couldn’t break away without risking getting stabbed in the back or neck. He moved his feet, wincing, as Derek took another hit; his backpack strap shifted against the cut on his shoulder, making him flinch. A voice seemed to rise in his mind, a memory. _Tell Fauriei hello from me._ He swung his bag off, smacking Halia with it in his rush. He dug around until he found the somehow unbroken jar of bubbly orange liquid.

Halia gasped. When he looked at her, to his surprise, her eyes were lit up. “Jallena?” she asked. She practically had heart eyes. 

“Yes…”

She nodded, then visibly composed herself. She looked at the fight, her expression going cold and calculating. “When there’s a break, throw the grass, grab your wolf, and run.”

“A break?”

“I will tell you when.”

Stiles touched her shoulder. “What about you?” he asked grimly.

She flashed a smile. “I will escape when you do, to my own path.”

“Are you—are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

She rolled her eyes. “I already owe you one life debt, Stiles Stilinski. Do not try to make it two.”

“Why do you call me my full name?”

“Is it?” She looked toward the fight. “Get ready.”

Derek pinned Fauriei with his foot, knife held aloft, and roared. 

Prince Fauriei put his hands up.

Derek’s fangs flashed.

The crowd tensed, as if wondering if he would kill a surrendering opponent.

Mivian moved toward them, then halted when Halia put her sword on her chest. She looked close to tears. “But _I_ got him,” she whined.

“Stiles,” Halia said, tilting her head. 

Stiles ran to Derek’s side, grabbing his arm. “Don’t,” he whispered. When Derek didn’t move, Stiles yanked his arm hard enough to knock him off balance. While he wobbled, Stiles smashed the vial at their feet. 

Billowing black smoke filled the room almost instantly, exploding out from the bottle.

Stiles shifted his grip so he was holding Derek’s hand, locking their fingers together. Everything around them was black, blocked by the smoke.

Voices rose in panic, bodies pushed and shoved from all directions. 

Stiles pulled Derek closer. He couldn’t see anything except the intersecting, glowing lines. “Trust me,” he ordered. “I can get us out.”

Derek said, “Okay.” 

Stiles took a breath. The smoke was tasteless, no scent or eye-stinging chemicals, slightly cool on the skin, like moving through water. He stepped onto the red line. He led them out, along the red path as it curved down like they were descending a hill. The world twisted and turned around them, it shook like it was collapsing, but Derek kept holding his hand.


	25. Chapter 25

The smoke followed them through the path, like it was clinging to their clothes. Stiles kept his eyes on the red path beneath their feet, trying to ignore everything going on around them. His eyes stung from not blinking, his head was spinning, and he was concentrating so hard that he began to crush Derek’s fingers without noticing. 

Derek didn’t complain or let go. He knew Stiles had to concentrate, so he stayed quiet and let Stiles lead him. 

Stiles blinked. 

They tumbled into dirt; he wheezed when Derek landed on top of him.

Derek swore and scrambled up. “Let me see,” he ordered. 

Stiles groaned and lifted his head. His heart clenched when he saw the trees around them, familiar and damp. The dirt under them was regular, damp earth, and they were surrounded by a swarm of gnats. “We’re home.” He grinned up at Derek. 

“Yep. Now let me see where the blood is coming from.” He brandished his bloody hand. 

“Oh.” He’d been holding onto him with the hand he’d cut trying to escape his bindings. “These could’ve been much worse,” he pointed out while Derek inspected his palm. “I had a knife. Imagine the damage I could’ve done.”

“I am.”

“I’m just saying that these are relatively minor.”

“They still hurt.”

Stile shrugged. “A little, but-” He started to say “compared to everything else, they aren’t bad”, but Derek folded his hand between his own, pulling the pain away little by little.

Derek glared at their hands. “You know I wasn’t—I meant it. We want you around.”

“That’s good,” he said, “because I have lesson plans.”

He looked down, then back up, smiling hesitantly. 

Stiles’s heart flipped. “We still on for a-a—dating?”

“Yes,” Derek said solemnly. “We have to go over your lesson plans.”

Stiles snatched his hand away indignantly. “I have been studying self-defense-”

“Good idea.”

Stiles blinked at him, derailed. 

“As a human, you should take a proper class, so we don’t accidentally break you.” His lips quirked. 

Stiles relaxed and scratched the back of his neck. “Ah. Good. That’s…good idea. Thanks.” He looked up at the tree branches above them. “I wonder what day it is. How long have we been gone?”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t know, but we should tell the pack we’re back and get you medical attention.” He stood and helped Stiles to his feet. 

He grimaced. “I’d rather a shower, actually. And also, you promised me curly fries.”

Derek snorted. “I haven’t forgotten.” He checked his phone and sighed, showing Stiles the badly damaged screen. It wouldn’t even turn on.

Stiles’s phone, stored in the backpack, had miraculously survived without damage, but the battery died as soon as he unlocked the screen. “Figures,” he muttered. 

“Guess we’re walking.”

Stiles sighed. If he had to take any more long walks through the woods—through _any_ woods—again after this, he was going to move to a city where the only trees were in parks and weird themed restaurants. His dad could come if he wanted. 

“I wonder if the pack figured out about Deaton yet.”

Stiles winced. He’d forgotten about that. “I hope so.” He looked over his shoulder, hoping they weren’t followed. If he couldn’t take Halia’s path, did that mean faeries couldn’t take his path? 

“We’re getting close to where I went in,” Derek observed. “We can walk to the gas station and call-”

A shout rose, echoing around them, followed by the thunder of several stomping feet. 

Stiles reached convulsively for his hammer, stomach swooping when it wasn’t there. Lost at their ambushed camp.

The pack descended upon them, all of them talking over each other. They cycled through pissed, shocked, pissed again, and then elated at the sight of them. Erica punched a fist in the air when she saw Stiles, mouth opening to cheer. 

Scott stomped up to Derek. “You said we would do this together,” he snapped. “You left without telling anyone, how is that working together?”

Boyd’s face was just as irritated, arms crossed while he glared at him. He did catch Stiles’s eye and smile, just a little, before going back to glaring at Derek. 

“Stiles is bleeding,” Isaac pointed out, but quietly. 

Stiles waved his hand, but the pack was too angry to notice, apparently. 

“We’ve been looking for both of you for three hours,” Boyd said in an even, if stern, voice. “We were worried.”

Derek just stared at him.

Stiles laughed helplessly, looking back and forth between them and Derek. 

“Excuse me?” he managed at last. 

“Three. Hours,” Erica growled.

“That’s impossible. I was in Faerie for days,” Derek insisted, bewildered. He shook his head. “Did you guys see Deaton?”

“No,” Erica drawled, “we followed your scent, and when we couldn’t find you, we started our _three hour search._ ”

Derek rubbed his forehead.

Stiles gave up trying to understand. 

“Deaton—the Deaton who helped us is a faerie. We have to figure out where the real Deaton is.”

Stiles’s shoulders slumped until he felt Derek watching him. “I’m good. Let’s go. Go team.”

“Is one of your cars nearby?” Derek asked. 

They only had to get to the road where Boyd had parked his mom’s minivan, but the walk felt longer to Stiles, even after the whole pack—except Jackson—had crowded in to hug and pat at him. Even Isaac. His arm bumped Derek’s a couple times during the trek, maybe on purpose to make sure he was still there, but he kept facing forward.

Scott looked back at them, grinning at Stiles for just a moment before an uncertain look crossed his face. His gaze darted between the two of them. 

Stiles sighed. He shouldn’t have been surprised and he mostly wasn’t, but he was too _tired_ to deal with this. He looked at Derek.

He was tense and already looking back at Stiles.

Stiles shrugged, tilting his head toward the pack.

Derek shrugged too. 

Stiles had to do everything himself. “Derek and I were in Faerie for a few days,” he said, making the group look back at him. “It was a lot.”

The pack agreed, vocally and with encouraging nods. Except Jackson, who was picking leaves off his pants with a furious look on his face. 

They must’ve been worried, Stiles thought, amused. He gestured between himself and Derek with a floppy hand. “We kissed a lot. We’re gonna go on a date and see if we want to kiss some more.” He kept walking when the rest of them froze in shock, if only because if he stopped now, he wouldn’t be able to force himself to start again.

There was a wide variety of shock on the faces around him: horrified, delighted, baffled. Erica looked like she’d won the lottery without realizing she’d entered, for example, and Isaac looked resigned after a second, while Boyd simply lifted his brows at Stiles as he passed and began to grin. Jackson looked more interested in the mud caking his boots than that announcement, which he probably hadn’t heard at all. 

Scott, Stiles noticed, tried and failed several times to say something. 

Stiles snagged Derek’s hand and marched determinedly onward. He winced, because his palm was still cut, but he wasn’t letting go now.

Erica said, “Awesome,” and trotted after them.

Stiles grinned to himself. He nearly wept at the sight of the van, and if he and Derek fell asleep a little bit on the ride to the animal clinic, only Isaac noticed, and he didn’t say a word. 

Deaton was asleep in the back office of the clinic, blissfully unaware of the faerie havoc wrought in his absence. He woke as soon as Scott shook his shoulder, looking politely confused. His expression didn’t change an inch as they explained what’d happened. “Well, I’m glad you made it back. I believe I have enough bandages to spare if you’d like me to take a look at your injuries, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Skip the extra stop and go straight home after this? _Hell_ yes.” 

Derek, Boyd, Erica, Jackson, and Isaac waited in the hall and waiting room, spreading through the clinic. 

Stiles sat in a chair while Deaton disinfected all of his cuts from shoulders to ankles. Scott hovered and, after Stiles winced for the eighth time, blurted, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He looked up at Scott. “I’m in Derek’s pack. He’s not—he wasn’t the best but he’s learning and I figure we can learn together.” 

Deaton muttered over the cut on Stiles’s side, the biggest one, before taping a large bandage over it. 

Stiles swallowed. “I’d like if you came with me, but—even if you don’t, I’m in it.”

Scott kept frowning at him. “Because you guys kissed?” he asked like he was worried Stiles had been seduced or something.

“Because we’re friends and we can all help each other.” The first part was important to him, he realized, almost as much as the second.

Scott nodded after a moment. “Okay.” He looked at Deaton. “So? Will he live?”

“It appears so. Mr. Stilinski, I suggest you stay away from sharp implements for the foreseeable future.” He stepped over to the sink to wash his hands.

Scott lunged, throwing his arms around Stiles’s shoulders and nearly toppling him and the chair over. “I thought you were gone for good!” He squeezed him tight.

Stiles hugged him back. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Like black mold,” Scott agreed, snuffling against his shoulder. He straightened, eyeing Stiles’s face, the bruises and the cuts too superficial to bandage. “You should take Derek home with you.”

He blinked, then again, sure he’d misheard. “Huh?” He was too tired to figure out where Scott’s train of thought had looped off to. 

“Your dad will want to know as soon as possible that you’re okay _and_ that Derek found you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Derek got himself trapped, too, but okay, sure.”

Scott smiled. 

Deaton shooed them out after that; apparently he had something like two hundred messages for missed appointments and scheduling to deal with, so he was busy. Scott stayed to help, because as worried as he had been, he could tell Stiles was too exhausted for a big reunion.

Erica grabbed Stiles in a gentle-ish headlock as they left, rubbing her hand over his head. “Are you alpha-by-proxy now? Do we have to do what you say?” She let him go with a laugh. 

Derek rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as alpha-by-proxy.”

“ _Do_ we have to do what he says?” Isaac pressed.

“Yes,” Stiles said. “So does Derek. I am all knowing.”

Jackson scoffed. 

“You can’t be mean to me or I’ll let Derek keep beating you up during training.” Stiles glanced at Isaac and, remembering, scrambled to dig the scarf Marwin had given him out of his bag. “Here.” He shoved it into his hands. “Now someone drive me home before I collapse and have to be carried.”

“I can carry you now,” Erica offered with a fanged grin. “How come we didn’t all get gifts from the faerie realm?”

Isaac ran the scarf through his fingers, perplexed and maybe pleased. 

“Because I got that one on accident. Seriously. Collapsing very soon.”

Boyd dropped Derek and Stiles off at Stiles’s house. Stiles hopped out of the van and just stood in the yard, staring at the house, while Derek had a quiet word with his pack. Boyd said, very firmly and audibly, “We will be at the loft,” and Derek quietly agreed, and then the van was pulling away. 

“Are they in trouble?”

Derek laughed softly. “Uh, no, I think I am. They really were worried.” He looked happily surprised by that.

Stiles grabbed his hand. “Come on, I’m starving.”

John opened the door before they got to it. He caught Stiles in such a rough hug that they overbalanced and toppled to the porch.

Stiles buried his face in his dad’s shoulder and clung to him, hands fisted in the back of his shirt. “You stink,” he mumbled. “You need a shower.” 

John laughed wetly and leaned back, scrubbing a hand over Stiles’s filthy hair. “Oh, I think you need one more than me.” He looked him over, gaze catching on the deep blue bruise on his jaw. Then he noticed his clothes. “What are you wearing?”

Stiles plucked at the yellow tunic. “Gift wrap, I think.” He sniffled.

John helped him to his feet, then hugged him again. “ _Stop hiding things from me,_ ” he ordered as he pulled away.

Stiles grimaced. “I’m working on it.”

John seemed to notice Derek finally, standing off to the side, looking awkward. He took a breath, like he was bracing himself. “Thank you for bringing him back,” he said, and it looked like he was gearing up for a longer declaration of gratitude, but Derek cut him off. 

“Stiles actually got us both out.”

John sighed, relaxing and rolling his eyes. “I am not surprised by that.” He rubbed his face and poked Stiles’s shoulder lightly. “Stop scaring me like that. Come on, boys, let’s have dinner. You both look like you’re starving.”

Derek straightened and walked in like he was heading to the gallows, which would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so sad. 

They held hands under the table while they ate, which John absolutely noticed, but Stiles saw him visibly decide not to mention it. He was glad. They could talk about this later—he was too tired to discuss it, and John most likely had realized that. Stiles knew a discussion was on the horizon for him, though—John’s general distrust of Derek, the age difference, and maybe all of Stiles’s injuries, provided plenty to discuss—but for now, it was just chicken and macaroni and cheese, for which he was eternally grateful.

Derek left after politely thanking them for dinner, smiling at Stiles for half a second before he was gone.

John gave Stiles one last hug before sending him up to shower and go to bed. 

Stiles nearly wept at the sight of his bathroom—and he _did_ weep when he got into the hot shower—but there was no one to see. He left everything he’d been wearing, backpack included, on the bathroom floor once he was clean, then put on his baggiest sweats and t-shirt, and went to his room. He ran a hand through his wet hair, wincing as his shoulder muscles protested. 

His room was dim even though it was midday, the blinds closed tightly. He could hear John heading to his own room—he probably needed sleep, too—and sighed. He had to clear off his bed if he wanted to lay down in it. 

He seriously considered flinging it all to the floor, but then he’d just have to clean it up later, most likely after tripping over it. He moved pens, notebooks, highlighters, and textbooks to his desk one small armload at a time. After everything in the faerie realm, this task felt like salt in all of his wounds. 

Tapping on his window made him jump. 

He cautiously pulled the blinds up, then rolled his eyes and unlocked the window.

Derek pushed it open. He was wearing clean clothes and his hair was wet—and smelled strongly of coconut. “Erica replaced my shampoo,” he grumbled, as if he’d noticed Stiles noticing it.

“Uh-huh.” He stepped back so Derek could come in.

“The faeries might come back.”

Stiles squinted at him as he carefully closed and locked the window. “Is something wrong with the front door?”

He blinked, then said, “The sheriff is here.”

“Yes, he lives here.” Then he smiled, and Derek smiled back, looking relieved. “So how bad was it, with the pack?” He yanked the blinds down and sat on the edge of his bed. 

“Only so bad as them throwing my own words about helping each other and looking out for each other back at me. There were also a few refrains of “how are we supposed to trust you if you don’t trust us” and disappointment all around.”

“Yikes.” Stiles pushed his blanket down and sprawled into his bed. After a minute, he crooked a finger at Derek until he climbed into the empty space beside him.

He sat so his back was against the headboard, close enough that Stiles could rest his head on his leg, if he wanted. 

“Tell me your plans for the pack’s training.”

Stiles pinched his leg. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Derek smirked down at him.

Whatever. He wanted to tell him anyway. “I was thinking we start with basic stances, because muscle memory is important even for werewolves. There are plenty of videos online, we can all practice together.” He put his hand under his cheek, getting more comfortable. He would probably fall asleep soon. “We can also figure out when to run and when to stay and fight—both important parts of a fight, and should be discussed in depth before the situation arises so that a decision can be made instinctively.”

“Mmhm.”

“We’ll have to go over how to fight in a group without hindering each other, and,” he yawned, “how not to get your asses kicked.”

“You’ve thought of this a lot.” Derek moved down, tentatively stretching out next to him. He laid on his side so they were facing each other.

“Yes, I have.” He closed his eyes and smiled sleepily. “I told you. Lesson plans.”

Derek caught his hand and twined their fingers together, and Stiles drifted into sleep.

When he woke, he was alone, but there was a pile of steaming curly fries on his nightstand, with the iron knife, clean of blood, next to it. He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was enjoyable, and possibly what you were looking for! I had fun writing it and playing in the faerie realm, so thank you for that! <3


End file.
